
Class _J:i5_3^3^ 
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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




SYLVAN SHADES 



Nellie Rebert 



The Mad River Country 

AND 

The Old Skating Pond 

WITH 

Other Verse 



BY 

Orton G. Rust and Theo. J. Rebert 



United Brethren Publishing House 

Established 1834 

Dayton, Ohio 






Copyright. 1915 

by 

Orton G. Rust and Theo. J. Rebert. 




DEC 31 1915 



0)G!.A418273 



Wild winds, deep Woods and Wild flowers, 
Green meadow and wide field, 
Long after; in lifes winter hours. 
What reveries ye yield; 
Then will the aching, ageing heart. 
Which thought its childhood done. 
Led by its longing, wondering start 
On fancy's feet to run. 



PREFACE 

In offering these lines for the consideration of the 
public, the writers are well aware of the vast abundance 
of better verse. However, George Cable makes one of 
Lis characters say, ^^In every man's heart there is at 
least one song." Possibly the reader, after a patient 
perusal of this offering, will conclude that, if these 
men have had any poetrj^ in their hearts, they have suc- 
ceeded admirably in keeping it there. Be that as it may, 
a book differs from a bore in one important feature : yon 
can shut up a book. A book never intrudes itself, al- 
ways awaits your convenience, and receives your con- 
tempt in silence. 

We have read and have believed, that every book 
into which a man has honestly attempted to put the 
best part of himself, contains at least one thing worthy 
of any one's remembering. His gold, if gold it be, may 
have been minted a hundred times ; he may have raked 
it from the dust-heap of a dead generation; even so, 
since nothing happens purely by chance, God has made 
him its temporary custodian and holds him responsible 
for its circulation. 

The worlds of thought and emotion have always 
offered freely to all men. One should wish to make 
some return, however small. Therefore, so desiring, we 
hold it shameful, not to have failed, but never to have 
tried. In the spirit of such sincere endeavor, we send 
out this book to seek its friends. 



The Mad River Country 

A few words as to the subject matter may be advis- 
able. We cannot say why we have chosen certain 
themes; rather we prefer to think that certain themes 
have chosen us ; while a theme can monopolize a man, we 
do not wish to infer that any man can monopolize a 
theme, believing that every theme is a fact, a thing eter- 
nal, beyond any man's power to make or mar. He can 
merely interpret to the best of his abilities. 

It existed, in the beginning, perfect in the mind of 
God. Some phrase of that Mind, manifested in every 
man and every object, is ever spread before all of us, 
like charts before the eyes of little children; and, like 
little children, we stumble through a fragment with 
droning voice and halting finger, killing the melody 
with lifeless, nasal tones. 

Seldom, if ever, do men get the full, blinding flash 
of God's whole meaning ; like Moses, see the eternal fire 
in the bush ; like Saul, the flame in the sunlight that is 
brighter than the sun. 

To stumble suddenly on a faint gleam of the glory, 
is to be raised up out of one's self, up into awe and 
ecstacy, to cry with Hugh Miller, "O God, I think thy 
thoughts after Thee." 

At the best, the vision is brief; men pile tome on 
tome and yet miss it; find, like Solomon, that of the 
making of books there is no end and that all is vanity 
and vexation of spirit. 

In these themes, other men could find some subtler 
harmony, some kindling thought that we have missed; 
it is there, but not for us. In the "Mad Eiver Country," 

6 



The Old Skating Pond 

the ballads and other pieces with some historical con- 
nection, there is a commoner meeting-ground. 

It can be stated as an axiom, that the elapsing of 
some time or a difference in place is essential to the 
existence of romance; otherwise too many realities rise 
up to mock the writer. When such seeming incongru- 
ities exist, the reader refuses to dwell in the house of 
illusion; he possesses, himself, the non-essential facts 
and refuses to divorce his attention from them. 

Over a hundred years, however, have passed since 
the settling of this section. The illiteracy, the unrefine- 
ments, the crudities of that age are no longer its most 
noticeable characteristics ; they have washed away, like 
the mould on the hills, leaving exposed the underlying 
rock. 

The characters of Kenton, Tecumseh, Clark, and 
others, had a wealth of unworked romance veining 
them. We wonder at the wealth of Scotland and Euro- 
pean countries in historical interest and poetic senti- 
ment. We forget that deeds unrecorded, unsung, and 
unread are powerless. Practically, they might as well 
never have happened; but let the reverse be true, and 
every one participates in them. We borrow their gran- 
deur for a moment and some hint of it endures. 

So it has been said, ^^Let me write a country's songs 
and I have written her history.^' We understand this 
to mean that when he shapes the mould in which is cast 
the national character, the history must follow as a 
matter of course. 

"All through our paltry stir and strife 
Glows down the wished ideal ; 



The Mad River Country/ 

And longing moulds in clay, what life 
Carves in the marble real." 

It is the great power of true poetry to burn in a 
great thought, in a few phrases. Lowell, in the above 
stanza, has embalmed it for eternity beyond the power 
of whole paragraphs of prose. He binds it to our minds 
with the strings of harmony. 

For too long a time our people of the Mad Kiver 
country have ignored an equivalent basis to that on 
which was built the border minstrelsy of Scotland, 
namely, the most populous region of the mound-build- 
ers, their probable connection with the Aztecs, the In- 
dian legends, the dark and horrible happenings of old 
Pickaway, Simon Kenton's captive experiences (which 
thinly veiled have furnished a host of writers witb 
material), the crossing here of the life-currents of 
Boone, Girty, Clark, Kenton, and Tecumseh, Harmon's 
expedition, St. Clair's defeat, James Smith's captivity. 
Stover's escape (of which we know of but one record, 
and that in an old book, long out of print), Hull's 
i^^arcli, the main events of the War of 1812, the pioneer- 
In :i, etc. Had we possessed a tithe of the taste for ro 
mance that dwelt in the Scottish heart, we would not 
have to spend four hundred million dollars annually in 
Europe to gratify our pretensions to culture. 

It is true that the comparatively flat and monot- 
onous landscape does not lend itself to suggestion as 
does the wilder hills and lakes of Scotland or Switzer- 
land. There seems to be a corresponding flatness of 
thought in all plain countries. No relics of olden times 
frown from our hills to command our curiosity, or so 

8 



The Old Skating Pond 

we say, ignoring Fort Ancient and its companion 
watch-towers. 

A too common contempt for the word poetry pre- 
vails, arising from indifference as to what true poetry 
is, and from ignorance of our own natures. All men 
feel the poetic sentiment, but comparatively few will 
recognize it. The convulsive clasping of children by 
mothers, the tender moments that a father knows, the 
thrill that comes from the wild lurch of the car, the 
delight the coarsest of men feel in something extraor- 
dinary, the emotion that moves us as we watch the 
landscapes, the fine lines of horses. If this is not poetic 
sentiment, it is its twin. 

Poetry seeks but to arouse a corresponding senti- 
ment within the heart when these objects are absent. 
We have few lovers of poetry, not because few can love 
it but because few can read it. To read seems the first 
and easiest of all accomplishments, but actually, the 
hardest and last acquired, and never acquired but by 
a few. 

Calling words is not reading. To read poetry one 
must be above wrestling with syllables and definitions. 
He must float along unweighted on the music of the 
lines, if hoping to catch the fairies dancing there. 

Let it be understood that, in writing this, we have 
not our own work in mind, nor are hoping to forestall 
honest criticism; nothing is farther from our thoughts. 
We seize this opportunity to express a plea for the neg- 
lected riches of undoubted and established worth, which 
have waited patiently on all men at all times, hoping 
to give them enjoyment. 



The Mud River Country 

Poetry, primarily, was the interpretation of music. 
It arose from the desire to express in words the pro- 
found but vague emotions aroused by music. Like all 
forces in the universe, this desire reacted upon its 
source. By the skillful arrangement of words were 
fcreated new melodies, which in turn aroused fresh 
emotions. Each succeeding circle of harmony linked 
to its predecessor and successor, forming a chain; a 
chain woven of such fragile things as bird songs, whis- 
pering winds, waving flowers, colored clouds, and all 
embodiments of beauty, perishable in themselves but 
potent to bind in captivity the hearts of a portion of 
each generation; a chain that runs through the chants 
of the temples, the psalms of the synagogues, the songs 
of the psalter, up to the hosannas and hallelujahs of 
heaven. 

The mission of the poet was, is, and ever will be, to 
make the thing beautiful to become correspondingly 
vocal; to walk down the endless galleries, hung with 
God's beauty, and, where the light is good, to photo- 
graph what he can; to bind these scenes in little vol- 
umes for the inner eye of man, that inner eye — 

^Which is the bliss of solitude," 

that inner eye of which the outer is but the symbol and 
suggestion, that inner eye, lacking which a man must 
need be blind through all eternity. 

When reason and some sentiment 
With music's melody are blent, 
A merry spell does hold in thrall 
In a fairy dell, each one and all. 

10 



The Old Shatifig Pond 

For thoughts in prose fall on deaf ears, 

Which dressed in rhymes would bring forth tears ; 

For though the reasoning be but poor, 

The rhythm makes it long endure. 

And would ye reach a height sublime, 
Ye find on poesy ye must climb ; 
For poesy is the hand of God 
That lifts man up above the sod. 

With music, oratory, art. 
And all that dwelleth in the heart. 
Reflection brings no joy complete; 
Affection makes existence sweet. 

Not through our thoughts, not through our mind. 
But through our hearts, our God we find ; 
The signposts, pointing up above. 
Speak not of wisdom, but of love. 

And when ye find true sentiment. 
It is a lamp from heaven sent. 
By which that path of life is lit 
Which leads toward the Infinite. 



11 



CONTENTS 



A Ballad of Gettysburg .... Orton G. Rust 

A Dog Orton Q, Rust 

A Fragment . Orton G, Rust 

A Fairy Song Orton G. Rust 

A Hymn Orton G. Bust 

An Idyl of Lenore Theo. J. Rehert 

Birth of Poetry (Extract) . . . Orton G. Rust 

Birth of Poetry (Extract) . . . Orton G. Rust 

Birth of Poetry (Extract) . . . Orton G. Rust 

Blue Violets Theo, J. Rehert 

B-o-b White! Orton G. Rust 

Church Bells Orton G. Rust 

Cupid's Battle Theo, J. Rehert 

Common Men Orton G. Rust 

Crossing the Bridge Theo. J. Rehert 

Dawn Theo. J. Rehert 

Dreams Orton G. Rust 

De Las' Joke Orton G. Rust 

Der Vatch ver Mein Orton G. Rust 

Epitaph of a Gossip Orton G. Rust 

Frontispiece Nellie Rehert . 

Farmers and Fathers Orton G. Rust 

Fragments of Nature Theo, J. Rehert 

Harvest Theo. J, Rehert 

Home Orton G. Rust 

Introductory Verse Orton G. Rust 

Life Theo. J. Rehert 

Liberty Orton G. Rust 

Lindy's Lullaby Orton G. Rust 

Life's November Orton G. Rust 

Land of the Winter Orton G. Rust 

Memories of Childhood .... Theo. J. Rehert 

My Mother Orton G. Rust 

Ohio Orton G. Rust 

Old Glory Theo. J. Rehert 

13 



95 

116 

46 

64 

70 
105 

56 

151 

146 

41 

18 

61 
106 

42 
109 

53 

28 

115 

120 

83 



48 
103 

25 

50 



17 
93 
48 
153 
21 

38 
148 

86 
101 



Preface Orton G. Rust 

Sadness in the Autumn .... Theo. J. Rehert 

Smiles Theo. J. Rehert 

The Bob White Orton G. Rust 

The Bird's Winter Theo. J. Rehert 

The Country-born Orton G. Rust 

The Crocus Theo. J. Rehert 

The Dance Orton G. Rust 

The Dance of the Fairies .... Orton G. Rust 

The Haunted Man Orton G. Rust 

The Indigo Bunting Theo. J. Rehert 

The Lie Orton G. Rust 

I'he Little Gray Bunny . . Theo. J. Rehert 

The Monitor Theo. J. Rehert 

The Mother's Blood Orton G. Rust 

To My Rocking Chair Orton G. Rust 

The Mills of God Orton G. Rust 

The Mad River Country .... Orton G. Rust 

The Old Skating Pond Theo. J. Rehert 

The Poets of Passion Orton G. Rust 

The Passing of Spring Theo. J. Rehert 

The Redwing and the Wren . . . Theo. J. Rehert 

The Reproof Orton G. Rust 

The Swallow Orton G. Rust 

The Sleigh Orton G. Rust 

The Stars Orton G. Rust 

The Searchlight Theo. J. Rehert 

The Sylvan Way (Extract) . . . Orton G. Rust 

The Teacher Orton G. Rust 

The Tulip Theo. J. Rehert 

The Tumble Bug Orton G. Rust 

The Undiscovered Land .... Orton G. Rust 

The Whippoor-will Orton G. Rust 

The Wheel of Pate Orton G. Rust 

The Wintry Weather Orton G. Rust 

The Yeoman Blood Orton G. Rust 

The Young Lady So Good! . . . Orton G. Rust 

Vicksburg and Gettysburg . . . Theo. J. Rehert 

We Are Seven Orton G. Rust 

What's In a Name? Orton G. Rust 



14 



The Old Shating Pond 



THE OLD SKATING POND 

Let Whittier sing his universe of snow ; 

Let Lowell set the poorest twig aglow. 

Let Thompson dedicate to whom he may 

His wavering storm, fast dimming all the day. 

But let me intonate in rhymes sincere 

The gayest exposition of the year. 

The river sleeps beneath a load of ice 

As firm as marble or a shale of gneiss, 

And all the landscape heaped with glistening snow 

Sets Parian hues inspiring in the glow. 

Old Boreas roars along the coated hill, 

And stirs the naked trees with stubborn will. 

The brief, low sun attunes his gentle ray 

To brighten every crystal as it lay 

In ridge or fold, in parapet or mound. 

Or palisades upon the hilltops round. 

Or bids them glitter all along the run. 

As heaped, they bridge the chasms, one by one. 

And, oh ! the mill-pond lingers by the wood, 
Where reeds and rushes all the autumn stood. 
Where marshes overgrown with tussock brown 
Are all festooned in lacings up and down. 
The bending brambles pearled in filigree, 
Be-girt the pond in rarest tapestry. 

15 



The Mad River Country 

Amidst the waters of that grand, old pond, 
A sentinel, under most exacting bond 
Stands guard as ages come and roll away; 
But now, imprisoned under winter's sway, 
All mute and white as if by age bent low. 
The island holds its summer growth and snow. 

The nest in which young waterfowl were hatched 
Lies buried under roofing polar thatched. 
The habitation by the heron tried 
Compels all searching eyes to be defied ; 
And every form of life to summer known 
Is now entombed or from the island fiown. 

But if you '11 hearken just a while to me, 
I '11 aim to show you how it seems to be 
That all this grandeur of the winter's store 
Is used by lads and lasses by the score. 
Who gather there beneath the evening moon, 
With skate in hand, and every voice in tune. 

The bonfire first sends up its tongues of fiame. 
Then voices ring from many a throat the same, 
To introduce the pastime of the skate 
Upon the ice that magnifies its fate. 
As off they go around the island's curve, 
The fieetest fancy skaters nimbly swerve. 

'T is winter fun now draws the crowd along. 
From curve to curve all join the shout and song; 
They sing the songs of happy childhood days. 
They sing as mother used to sing her lays 

16 



The Old Skating Pond 

When life was new and spirits free from care ; 
They love to sing those happy tunes by ear. 

From game to game the runners smoothly glide, 
From front to rear the nimble skaters slide; 
Then round the island trooping like the deer, 
They stroke the ice and whoop the Indian cheer ; 
And all en masse as legions o'er the plain 
They march, they flank, then countermarch again. 

The moon ascends above the wooded height. 
And over all resigns her flood of light, 
Encouraging to lad and lass to ply 
New art and feat as o'er the ice they fly ; 
Then turns the current of the music's lore 
To themes that artful cupid sang before. 

When all the games have run the gamut through. 
And winter stars are twinkling from the blue. 
Then all the host, as custom oft decreed, 
Begin to pair for midnight calls indeed. 
And beckons every pair to homeward go. 
And leave the millpond with its ice and snow. 



LIFE 

Our life is like an apple bloom 
That lingers on the bough. 

Then falls into a silent tomb. 
Not knowing when or how. 

17 



The Mud River Country 

Yet nature grows the perfect fruit 
To crown the failing tree 

With life, before its hidden root 
From nourishment is free. 



Somehow our God, unseen above, 

Preserves life's progeny, 
Just as the fruit, through his great love, 

Perpetuates the tree. 



BOB WHITE! 

A thousand miles of corn that quivers, 
A thousand mighty, rushing rivers, 
A thousand thousand singing rills. 
Uncounted cattle on the hills. 
Ten thousand thousand farmer folk. 
And other kindred things, have spoke 
Within that ringing call of thine. 
Pure as the fragrance from the pine 
Over the fields where blue grass waves. 
Full of the simple faith that saves. 
With clean, bold heart, this land of ours 
From principalities and powers. 
Long may ye live, each summer morn 
To sound a blast like Roland's horn. 
Forsaking silken beds of shame; 
Arouse our sons to do the same; 

i8 



The Old Shating Pond 

Adown the ages wind a blast 
That with the earth itself will last, 
To mould themselves to match a land, 
The masterpiece of the Master Hand ! 



THE SWALLOW 

One swallow will not make a summer, 
And yet he was born there. And then? 

He either has come from the summer. 
Or i^ seeking the summer again. 

He lived and he loved in the summer. 

He lived and he loved till we see 
The swallow is one with the summer. 

Wherever the swallow may be. 

Oh, watch but the flight of the swallow 
And watch not the weather so drear ; 

Oh, ride on the wings of the swallow 
And all of the summer is here. 

Let your heart sing the song with the singer, 
Forgetting his weakness and strife. 

And live through the lips of the singer 
A moment of heaven in life. 

In the swing of the wing of the swallow, 
The work of each one at his best, 

When he swings with the swing of the swallow, 
Is likeness to God manifest. 

19 



The Mad River Country 

THE WHIPPOOR-WILL 

Far down in the heaven 
The moon slowly falls; 

And faint from the meadow 
The whippoor-will calls. 

The fairy of slumber 
Has stolen so nigh, 

So close, that she brushes 
Yet passes me by. 

The light and the silence 
Together have grown; 

The world is in slumber 
And I am alone. 

The road in the valley 
Is whiter than day, 

A river of silver 

That runs far away. 

The light is enchanted, 
The light of a moon 

Obeying the wand of 
The magician, June. 

As far as the road runs. 
The spirit no.w floats, 

As lonely and wild as 
The whippoor-will notes. 

20 



The Old Skating Pond 

Far down in the heaven 
The moon slowly falls; 

And faint from the meadow 
The whippoor-will calls. 



LAND OF THE WINTER 

Praise God, I was born where the wild winds blow! 

Where the langnid face is lashed by the snow ; 

Where the keen wind spurs, and the storm contents; 

Where the blood is one with the elements ; 

Where the heart 's a-wish for the wild wolf's howl ; 

Where the pine trees swish and the black bears prowl ; 

Land of the winter, the gray caribou; 

Land of the rifle, the axe, and the shoe ; 

Land of the long trail, the trapper who thinks 

Light of his shadow, Upweekis, the lynx ; 

Land where the air from the evergreen pine 

And the wide, white plain, is a tonic, a wine; 

Days that are lived in a crystal palace ; 

Nights that are lit by the far Borealis ; 

Land of the air-king. Cloud Wings, the eagle ; 

Lands where the pine stands, white-robed and regal, 

liand where the men, like their mother, are rude; 

Land of the winter and the white solitude. 

21 



The Mad River Country 

THE SLEIGH 

Hark ! the bells are coming ; listen ! 
Through the sparkle and the glisten 
Comes the clash and crash and jangle 
Till the earth and air 's a-tangle, 
Mingled with a murmur low 
From the thud of flying hoofs that 
Beat the time upon the snow. 

Through the frosty air a-ringing, 

Every molten throat is singing: 

"Leave your work and leave your worry, 

Come unto the window ; hurry, 

For the bells are passing by ; 

Teasing ear and taunting eye, 

We go bounding, sounding by !'' 

Quick the parting as the meeting, 
From the hearts unshouted greeting; 
Sparkle, thud, and tang and jingle. 
Song of runners, melt and mingle 
Till the sun of passing smiles. 
As the sleigh goes rushing on. 
Warms the riders through the miles. 

Every heart that hears is captured, 
Every soul does stand enraptured; 
Dreaming, too, it 's gone a-giiding. 
Off behind the bells a-riding 
Down a never-ending road. 
Catching from bright eyes beside it 
Loving look that 's shy bestowed. 

22 



The Old Shating Pond 

THE PASSING OF SPEING 

The tepid airs are blowing, 

The ice has gone away, 
The clouds no more are snowing, 

The warmth has come to stay. 

The hills grow green and sunny, 
The orchard 's white with bloom, 

The bees are making honey. 
And birds are all a-tune. 

The woods in green are waving. 
The millpond 's edged in gold, 

The waves are softly laving 
The rock upon the mold. 

The little lambs are playing. 
The shepherds guard nearby; 

The brier rose is swaying 
So peaceful to the eye. 

The dogwood, like a fairy. 
Holds up its flowers white. 

As full as it can carry 
With all its woody might. 

The flowers all are blooming 

Along the rocky glen, 
And rushes upward booming 

In every soggy fen. 

j23 



The Mud River Country 

The milkweed and the bramble 
Grow rank along the run; 

The grape-vines seem to ramble 
Their tendrils in the sun. 



The clover blooms in beauty 
Throughout the pleasant vale; 

The cornfields call to duty 
From upland, hill, and dale. 

The bumble bees are busy, 
The spider's web is hung, 

The frog-pond makes one dizzy 
When croaking songs are sung. 

The woodchuck leaves his burrow, 
The turtle's voice is heard. 

The ground-mole leaves a furrow 
Where'er the mould he 's stirred. 

The columbine is clinging 

To the high rock of the bluff; 

The bluebells all are ringing 
A music clear enough. 

The firefly's wink is gleaming 

By every sloping hill. 
And fires brightly beaming 

In marsh-lands of the rill. 

24 



The Old Shating Pond 

The garden beds are loaded 
With tuber and with pod, 

And every root has goaded 
Disintegrating sod. 

The bearded grain is bending, 
The reaper's cradle swings, 

And now the spring is ending 
And summer's anvil rings. 



HARVEST 

The meadows chime at harvest time 

With insects gaily thrumming; 
The honey-bees in scented leas 

Keep up a constant humming. 
Lo, ere the dew leaves sward or yew, 

We hear the mower coming 
To join the lay of summer's play. 

While pheasants add their drumming. 

'T is sweet to hear this summer cheer, 

When winds are low beguiling. 
And feel that gain from ripened grain 

Repays the cost of tiling. 
So do not fear that buzzing jeer, 

'T is only wood-bees whiling. 
But kindly heed the future's need 

And, like the sun, keep smiling. 

25 



The Mud River Country 

So let the tune of harvest boon 

Keep up its pleasant prattle, 
For summer's wane will cause the brain 

To long for summer's rattle. 
The wintry wind brings forth its gTind 

Of feeding hungry cattle; 
And so it goes through winter snows, 

We 'd rather go to battle. 

A little strife to season life 

Is not to be discounted ; 
We ride the steed to gain indeed, 

And not to be dismounted. 
So let the play of summer stay 

Securely oft refounted, 
And then there may for every day 

Be something good accounted. 

The growth of grain is brought by rain 

Mixed with a little shining; 
The purest truth is gained in youth 

Joined with a little whining; 
The choicest gold, as I am told, 

Kequires a little mining; 
The courted crown of fair renown 

Comes after real repining. 



THE LIE 

A lie is like the shifting sands 
That ford a river wide, 

26 



The Old Skating Pond 

And give no hint that iron hands 
Among the shallows hide. 

The coward conies. In haste he flees. 

He dare not stand at bay. 
The water scarce will wet his knees, 

The bridge is far away. 

Behind him sounds the swift pursuit; 

He pales and glances back. 
Before him wait the waters mute 

To wash away his track. 

A refuge lies on yonder shore ; 

And, passing safely, then 
'T is seldom many days before 

He comes that way again. 

Why seek the distant bridge of truth, 

And ever pay the tolls? 
'T was built for inexperienced youth 

And not for daring souls. 

Along the shortest way he flies. 

In fleeing from his acts. 
And crosses on the sands of lies 

Which ford the stream of facts. 

And all the time they lie in wait. 
The shifting, shifting sands, 

Yet locking till the hour of fate 
Their restless, restless hands. 

27 



The Mud River Country 

Along the pleasant paths he trips, 

Along the easy way; 
A summer song is on his lips, 

For life is in the May. 

And naught to danger does allude 

Nor runs the current strong. 
When last he comes in careless mood 

To gaily splash along. 

Oh, coward and fool! why cower and shrink? 

Ye feel those clutching hands ! 
But all your struggles only sink 

Ye deeper in the sands ! 



DREAMS 

The clay was sleeping. 
The spirit sweeping 
Through space, and keeping 

A distant tryst; 
Had gone a-winging, 
Lured by the singing 
Of voices ringing 

Through dreamland's mist. 

It saw, in nearing, 
Dim aisles appearing, 

And clearer hearing 
The song they sing ; 

28 



The Old Shating Pond 

Above the chorus 
A voice rolled o'er us, 
Whose mounting bore us 
On tireless wing. 

From years of storing, 
A rapt adoring 
And then outpouring 

Her hidden love; 
In never-ending 
Wide sweeps ascending, 
Her song was wending 

Its way above. 

Again belonging 
With never-wronging, 
Glad thousands thronging 

The rainbow bridge, 
Our feet were marching 
That awful arching, 
O^er deserts parching 

And mountain ridge. 

And never halting 
But still exalting. 
Her song was vaulting 

Up to a star. 
Then came the calling 
From clay, the falling 
To depths appalling 

From heights afar; 

29 



The Mud River Country 

But in the blending 
With clay, suspending 
The flight, and ending 

In fitful gleams. 
Was I a visitant 
To worlds far distant? 
Or worlds existant 

Save but in dreams? 

What matter? Seeing, 
The wearied being. 
From care a-fleeing. 

With freshness fills ; 
From only knowing 
A song was fiowing 
Like breezes blowing 

From cedared hills. 



SADNESS IN THE AUTUMN 

There ^s a sadness in the autumn 
When the days are growing brief; 

There's a longing for the summer, 
When the forest casts the leaf. 

There 's a sadness in the sunshine 
When it sparkles on the dew. 

Like the ceasing of true friendship, 
For it makes the autumn blue. 

3ft 



The Old Skating Pond 

There 's a sadness in the breezes 
As they wail the woodlands through, 

When the sisterhood of flowers 
All are stricken from the view. 



There 's a sadness in the starlight 
As it quivers, clear and cold, 

From its height above the mountain, 
Down upon the barren mould. 

There's a sadness in each moonbeam. 
As it casts a shadow drear 

Of the hill upon the valley. 
With the winter lurking near. 

There 's a sadness in the shower 
When it rattles through the day. 

With the chilling blasts attending 
All along the gloomy way. 

There 's a sadness on the moorland. 
When the killing frosts appear. 

Like the weeping of the willow 
With its branches brown and sear. 

There 's a sadness on the river, 

As it flows demurely by. 
With the ice along the edges 

Where the frozen asters lie. 

31 



The Mud River Country 

There 's a sadness o'er the meadow, 
When the cattle cease to graze, 

When the fog above the river 
Mingles with the autumn haze. 

There 's a sadness in the woodlands, 
Where the songsters used to sing, 

Since the leaves have left the branches 
Where they had their summer swing. 

There 's a sadness all about us. 
On the left and on the right. 

For the frost has killed the verdure 
And the birds have taken flight. 

There 's a sadness on the highland. 
There 's a sadness on the low. 

There 's a whisper of cold wdnter 
In the chilly winds that blow. 



THE TEACHER 

Now, blest be he that teaches. 
Who never once forsook 

For the hand ambition reaches. 
The ink-well and the book. 

For he that teaches reading 
So children understand. 

That humble soul is leading 
The future by the hand. 

32 



The Old Shatifhg Pond 

Such, every daiy, arouses 

Some soul, until it looks 
From little, red school-houses 

To the college of good books. 

Though now my work has shifted. 

No pleasure do I know 
Like little eyes uplifted, 

A childish face aglow. 

And when one loved a sweet rhyme. 

Its rapture was to me 
As the first bird of the springtime. 

The first bud on the tree. 

Be seekers, searchers, reachers 
For things and thoughts divine. 

When thus ye labor, teachers. 
The future all is thine. 



TO MY ROCKING CHAIR 

For long thou wast mine only friend ; 
And oft, together, we would wend 
Our way along in a pleasant jaunt 
To lands where things are as we want. 

I never tell of hearts that dwell. 
And live, and love, and cast a spell. 
In golden sands of glamour lands, — 
I know the hearts of scoffers well. 

33 



The Mad River Country 

And so I played long years with these, 
Could call, dismiss each, as I 'd please. 
Some say, old friends, ye played me false, 
And that I gave life's gold for dross. 

Go forth to wars, in fancy's strife 
Expend the nerye I need in life ! 
What matter? Ye would be, in truth. 
The Persian carpet of my youth. 

Aladdin's lamp could never bring 
Joys charmed by cadence of thy swing ; 
And every night I find that ye 
Unlock more wealth than "Sesame." 

In their stern code of life, it seems. 
One deed is worth a million dreams. 
I give from shame, as misers share, 
The wealth won by my rocking chair. 



THE UNDISCOVEEED LAND 

I remember, I remember 

How, as a child, I stood 
Entranced, and heard the little bird 

That warbled in the wood. 

'Mid barren yards and buildings old, 

My eyes against the pane 
Had only told of heat, and cold. 

And wind, and snow, and rain. 

34 



The Old Skating Pond 

At four, from dingy streets I knew, 

We moved to rural scenes. 
Where songsters flew through heavens blue 

And wood's enchanting greens. 

My race, it ever knew the wood. 

The forest's mystery; 
And how the flood of country blood 

Came welling up in me. 

And, oh, the peace when prisoned eyes 

Meet unobstructed views ! 
To weary eyes the balm that lies 

In nature's native hues. 



I never, in the smudgy town. 
Took off the bandage, could 

With wond'ring eyes behold the skies 
Bend down and kiss the wood. 



And, oh, the power to ponder, that 
The heart of childhood knows! 

And how it sat to wonder at 
The flapping flight of crows ! 

A bigger bird, with lordly air. 
Swung round a snagged tree. 

And resting there, would fiercely glare 
Across the fields at me. 

35 



The Mad River Country 

I had the tastes, the appetite, 

Of children city-fed. 
Now, noon and night, I could delight 

In country milk and bread. 

I saw the seven wonders in 

A one-horned, brindle cow ; 
Had, with grin of rapture, been 

On horses while they plow. 

I remember, I remember 

The humming-birds that flew. 

But hovered most about the post 
Where honeysuckles grew ; 

The narrow road, with nothing new 

To rest the weary eye. 
But weeds that grew and dust that blew 

From farmers jogging by; 

The kind of crulls that mothers cook ; 

The old crab-apple tree. 
Whose blossoms shook down on my book. 

My rocking chair, and me. 

Has a dear one, whose days were few, 
E'er loving clasped your hand. 

Then, leaving you, has walked into 
The undiscovered land? 

36 



The Old Skating Pond 

So would I wish myself to start, 

Hope every one I 've known, 
From every smart can purge his heart, 

That I can purge my own. 

I hope he finds how mother cooks ; 

That old crab-apple tree. 
And comes and looks among the books 

And rocking-chairs, for me. 

The birds will sing, on blossoms swing ; 

Oh, song and bloom divine! 
And should he bring no precious thing, 

There is no mine or thine. 



THE TULIP 

Come, gentle muse of fairy kind. 
Come join an anthem of the spring. 

Let Homer engage the austere mind, 
Aid thou the music that I sing. 

'T is the music sweet of a flower rare 

In colors of richest hue; 
Precaution faintly burdens the air 

With an accent soft and true. 

Its leaves shoot up a vernal green. 
Beside the mouldering wall ; 

Expansion molds a tall tureen 
Of every cup once small. 

37 



The Mad River Country 

But in a row or tulip bed, 
Where mingling colors show, 

From purest white to scarlet red, 
In grandest splendors glow. 

The autumn hue, the sunset gleams, 
Aurora's brightest rays are seen. 

The mellow trace of morning's beams 
Completes the rainbow's color sheen. 

All these among the tulip cups 
Are found in bright array; 

And from each one a fairy sups 
When at his moonlight play. 



MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD 

When childhood's days of pleasure, 
When youth's ambitious schemes. 

All linger as a treasure 

In memory's fondest dreams, 

'T is sweet to turn them over 

In reminiscent way. 
As strong arms turn the clover 

Just after dawn of day. 

Then time proves apt reminder. 
When labor and when toil. 

Like sheaves behind the binder. 
Make fainting hearts recoil. 

38 



The Old Skating Pond 

The woodchuck used to burrow 

Beside the beaten way, 
And field-mice bored a furrow 

Through meadows while at play. 

We traced the woodland over 

For sassafras in bud, 
And watched the belted plover 

Procure his food from mud. 

But working in the garden, 
Eemoving stubborn weeds. 

Made childish voices harden 
As blossoms turn to seeds. 

The millpond often beckoned 

For fishing or for play. 
And mealtime always reckoned 

Just as the shadows lay. 

And when the sun was hidden 
By clouds without a rift. 

We sought the meal unbidden 
And ate the kindly gift. 

What joy it was to gather 
Strawberries red in June, 

Or ride the colt, till lather 
Kequired a halt too soon. 

39 



The Mad River Country 

To hear the redbird whistle 

Upon the maple tree, 
Or see the blooming thistle, 

Was joy beyond degree. 

The school was in the valley 
Where learning was in store; 

The master kept the tally 
As scoremen keep the score. 

Our truant feet would wander, 
When sunny days appeared, 

Most precious time to squander, 
As youth was being reared. 

Along the stream we'd tarry. 
Beside the swimming hole. 

And watch the water carry 
The drift-wood to the shoal. 

Sometimes we dug the turnip 
The Indians knew so well 

Before they used the stirrup 
Or heard the pealing bell. 

Vacation brought its labor 
About the farmyard then, 

As war-time brings the saber 
To bravest, stalwart men. 

40 



The Old Skating Pond 

Among the tubers hoeing, 
Or thinning hills of corn, 

Found many a back a-bowing 
So early in the morn. 

This choring fostered evil, 

As lengthening suns grew warm. 

That set to work like weevil 
Defrauding every farm. 

So when the lads grew stronger 
And stood among the men. 

They wrought in fields no longer. 
But sought the city's ken. 



BLUE VIOLETS 

In the sunshine warm and bright. 
In the shadow's somber hue, 

Little violets seek the light 
To dilate their eyes of blue. 

In the crevice of the rock. 

Near the little, winding brook, 

Many blooms, on bending stalk, 
Share the silence of the nook. 

Some are seeking to be seen. 
Some are drooping shyly down. 

Some are hiding in the green, 
All are gay in bluest gown. 

41 



The Mad River Country 

Sweet, oh, precious, little gems. 
Looking through your eyes of blue, 

Bending low your slender stems, 
We have kindest thoughts of you. 

When we gather bunches large 

Of these violets so blue. 
May we heed their only charge, 

And be humble, kind, and true. 



COMMON MEN 

As the ages onward glide, 

Forests rise and forests fall; 
Mighty continents subside. 

Mankind never saw at all. 
So in every land and time. 

Needing but a crucial hour. 
Germs of words and deeds sublime 

Wait to manifest their power. 
'Neath the ash from flames of vore, 

With no hand to shake the grate, 
'Prisoned in a common ore, 

With no Curie sent by fate. 

Like the unguessed radium rays. 
Hidden fires of genius blaze. 

When a precious thing is sought. 
Do we find it where we thought? 
Seeking pearls of greatest price. 
Do we take our Lord's advice? 

42 



The Old Skating Pond 

Over seas and daring dangers, 

We '11 go seeking, I suppose 

Will refuse to look in mangers 

That are here beneath our nose. 

Ninevah, nor Babylon, Eome, 

Minaret nor swelling dome, 

Samarkand nor Athens, Tyre, 

Pyramid nor soaring spire. 

Is the chosen thing that tells 

Where the great Jehovah dwells. 

But the manger in the rock. 

But the shepherds with the flock. 

Show the One that then arrives, 

Loves to live with lowly lives. 

Common men of common birth 

Are the savor, salt of earth. 

Most of what the world has wrought 's 

Aggregate of common thoughts; 

Just the sum of many fractions. 

Many men, and many actions — 

All suggested, as a rule. 

By some dead, forgotten fool. 

Can the man with dreaming wits. 

With the scheme that never fits. 

With the life and death of sorrow, 

Have the keys that ope to-morrow? 

In his folly lives a spirit 

That is seeking truth, and near it. 

In his folly is a germ 

That will triumph o'er the worm; 

43 



The Mmd Ritvr Commtry 



Oat aimad a^ Hvltipfy, 
ScBse and icuun sstisfr; 
Stxrt of wkat, in ptapa 

of 
ini 

Yet tikf-y vere (» we did st) 
Just tte focris of yestanidm J, 
Meek cmni^ to go to sdboA 
To tibe dead, dnpisgd fold. 




9 



Fond tke kends of mew whemt; 
FriMft tke tk^ amtoiiptiioiK kmrkd 
€trew Ike grain to feed tke vwld^ 

Hi^ ia purpose^ great im ]ab«*^ 
\takiag distant fatmes Bei^bw 
Witk tke eonmom, trite to^aj. 
Pmpoae, lahor^ UmL, and strife, 
Tvniag up tke wiA €fi life 
ThFov^ tke watckes of tke ai^t, 
Seekiag new, ittasre U^t, 
Witk tke ipirit on tte nm, 
Wwki^ donkle dais in 
Oh, tke crank is like a 
Wkeie tke Hod is floating tkidt ; 
Genins is tke Alter plant. 
Gatcking wkat ve do not n^ant. 



The Old Skating Pond 

Letting living waters through, 
Pure and clarified, to you. 
When a mighty task arises, 
Task whose magnitude surprises 
Little men on lofty places. 
Note the trouble in their faces ! 
Men whose seats are elevated 
On a great inheritance, 
Men with worth degenerated, 
Only great in ignorance. 
Judging worth by wide dominion, 
Wise in self and fooPs opinion, — 
Will they pause to question whether 
Work and workman come together? 
Does the great Creator plan 
Out the work, forget the man? 
Put the whole wide world between? 
^^ Distant fields are ever green /^ 
For the honors, choose the high; 
Let no common man apply; 
Crush the humble, crude, and plain 
Down, with dignity, disdain. 
Flee reformers, flout the queer. 
Present fool and future seer. 
Read the record of the ages ; 
Scan the bulk of history's pages ; 
All are leading common lives 
Till the destined hour arrives. 
Looking backward, Bourbon eyes 
See no star in the feudal skies. 

45 



The Mad River Country 

Looking forward, dazzling man, 
Bursts the star of the Oorsican. 
Let us ponder, let us see 
What a puny thing was he, 
Till the spirit of the age 
Raised the curtain, set the stage. 
While the blood of the haughty East 
Bred no leader, bore no priest. 
In the cabins of the West 
Warriors, sages sucked the breast. 
Common men in common times! 
Common as these common rhymes. 
Just a tanner by his vat. 
Ragged clothes and slouching hat. 
With no hint of martial glories; 
Just a lawyer telling stories ; 
Common clay that met a death 
Like the Man of Nazareth! 
Just a meek and lowly Jew, 
Healing sick and loving you ; 
Up and down the land He trod. 
Only common man and — God. 



A FRAGMENT 

A fragment of a paean 

That burst through heaven's portal; 
The fullness of that song 

Would crush the ear of mortal ; 

46 



The Old Shating Pond 



A seraphic sweeping 
Of a celestial lyre, 

A terrific leaping 
Of chariots of fire. 



THE WHEELS OP FATE 

There are times that merely stand and wait. 

God's hand touches the wheels of fate. 

Up with the low, away they go, 

Whirling the high in the gulf below, 

Down where the fires of labor burn. 

To toil and sweat till another turn. 

The wheel is turning, the high repine. 

But go where the fiames of life refine. 

Out of your pomp and carnal joy, 

Smelting the gold from the base alloy. 

Trust to his guidance, and God will raise 

Your blood from the valley to sing his praise. 

Go where we will, and everywhere 

We are spending the gold that was smelted there. 

Smelted in darkness long ago 

By rude forefathers we scarcely know. 

Have spent your truth and honor? Then 

Down in the valley you '11 go again. 

Down in the valley you dwell to-day? 

Have honor and truth and love, you say? 

These are the treasures our God does prize ; 

Always and ever they catch his eyes. 

Patience and faith, for He does plan 

Out from your house to take a man, 

47 



The Mad River Country 

Eaise him and fire his heart until 

It shines like a beacon on a hill. 

Trust to his guidance, and God will raise 

Your blood from the valley to sing his praise. 



LINDY'S LULLABY 

Dis little haid ergin mah breast, 
Sets mah trubulled soul at rest. 
Dis little coon, a-cooin' at de moon. 
Makes mah heart sing wif er chune. 

Go 'way, grief, a-hush yoh moan, 
Poh Ah doan feel so much alone. 
She 's lightened up de load Ah beah. 
Made mah soul send up a preah. 



FARMEKS AND FATHERS 

Some farmers grow a crop of grains, 
While others grow a crop of brains ; 
But blest be he who groweth both 
In such a way his sons are loath 
To leave him and his country-side; 
Who, living, binds the yellow sheaves 
For many a year, and, dying, leaves 
His name and worth, both multiplied. 

48 



The Old Bhating Pond 

THE YEOMAN BLOOD 

I cannot pass the yeoman by ; 
His stalwart form has caught my eye. 
Is there a baron that we would 
Receive for Boone or Eobin Hood? 
No time, no distance matters when 
We claim our kin, our countrymen ; 
This farmer blood that ever sings 
The fighting songs of old searkings. 
Oh, yeoman blood! Oh, manhood stark! 
The guardian of the holy ark 
Of our God-granted liberty! 
Thou rugged Levite of the free ! 
No high, no low, no great, no least, 
But each a God-appointed priest 
To serve according to his power. 
And Argus-eyed to watch the hour 
When sacrilegious hands defile. 
While cynic-hearted traitors smile. 
The temple where our fathers' blood. 
Our mothers' tears poured out a flood 
Of high and holy sacrifice. 
Of sweet and savory sacrifice. 
No land can ever hope to last 
That crucifies a glorious past; 
And spitting on its fathers' pain, 
Its temple veil is rent in twain. 
Free fields forever yield free men. 
That country's knell is sounding when 

49 



The Mad River Country 

Her temple bells begin to toll 
Over the yeoman's sturdy soul; 
For she has naught to keep them free 
Except her clear-eyed yeomanry. 
The burden rides, we must confess, 
On his square-shouldered manliness. 



HOME 

The wood where I did play is gone, 
Its tow'ring spirit made to grovel ; 

Neglect, decay has fallen on 

The little house and made a hovel. 



Oh, this is not my childhood's home. 

The house embowered that sheltered me; 

Henceforth my homing feet must roam 
Adown the paths of memory. 

Nay, any spot assigned by fate. 

In hovel, heaven, pit, or star. 
Is home if there the loved ones wait. 

For home is where the loved ones are. 



50 



The Old Skating Pond 

SMILES 

Sweet smiles fill up the pages 
Of nature's choicest book, 

Reflecting through the ages 
True hearts, just as the brook 

Reflects in all its stages 
The verdure of the nook. 



With eagerness, all races 

Who civilize to-day, 
Search out the happy faces 

That smile all gloom away. 
Just as a sunbeam chases 

Dew off each drooping spray. 



When gloomy phantoms linger 
To make the heart grow drear ; 

Or fortune's bony finger 
Points to a load of fear. 

Then like a real harbinger 

Sweet smiles inspire good cheer. 



When sudden dangers frighten, 
True courage one should share ; 

Real smiles so often lighten 
The loads we have to bear. 

Just as the warm rays brighten 
The heavy-laden air. 



SI 



The Mad River Country 

When trials and temptations 

Bring burdens fraught with woe, 

To lower all our stations 
Wherever we may go, 

Then smiles, like new creations, 
Dispel each lurking foe. 

Then hail! ye happy faces. 
Where smiles forevermore 

Leave bright, celestial traces 
That angels must adore. 

The wealth of all the races, 
The riches of the poor. 



THE INDIGO BUNTING 

Gaily dressed in his coat of blue, 

The little bunting flies, 
A gleam of gentian's brightest hue 

Beneath the April skies. 

He perches on the greenwood tree 
And preens his glossy wing. 

Then sings a carol all for me 
While zephyrs make him swing. 

His antics are so very keen. 
His tones are pure and sweet. 

His azure coat, so plainly seen, 
O'er-canopies his feet. 

52 



The Old Skating Pond 

Each morning, at the break of day, 

He sings an early song, 
While perched upon the topmost spray 

Above the shadows long. 

And when the sun grows warm and bright, 

He hurries to and fro ; 
He flits about so free and light 

With chirpings sweet and low. 

He searches for his daily fare, 

As honest people should. 
And chooses it with greatest care 

Throughout the leafy wood. 

Much time he gives to household care 

To aid his modest mate, 
And often sings a carol rare 

To cheer her lonely state. 

And when his little, callow brood 

Lie hung-ring in the nest. 
He aids in bringing all the food. 

The choicest and the best. 



DAWN 

When the poles are turning slowly. 
Simply the accustomed way. 

Chasing shadows dark and lowly 
With the light of coming day; 

S3 



The Mad River Country 

Sometimes late, and late, and later, 
As the seasons hurry through. 

Bringing days to fill time's crater 
And make up the yearly crew; 

Just as many coming early. 
As the king of day commands. 

Making night a little surly 
Till her ebon sway expands. 

Some prefer the icy morning 
When its diamonds sparkle bright, 

When the snow, the hills adorning. 
Glistens in the rays of light. 

Others crave the autumn splendor, 
When the green leaves turn to gold, 

When the days are growing slender 
And the air is turning cold. 

Others always choose the winter. 
When the briefest days abide, 

To enjoy earth's greatest printer 
Lighting up his crystal slide. 

You may choose the one or other. 
Just the one that suits you best. 

Which may please your earthly mother 
More than any of the rest. 

54 



The Old Skating Pond 

But to me release the May-time, 
When the early dawns appear, 

Bringing splendors of the hay-time 
And the music of the year. 

Then ring out the bell for rising 
Just before the dawn begins, 

Just to see the shades despising 
Light that cannot cover sins. 

Now they chase along the highroad. 
As the grandeur of the sun 

Oasts upon the tinted sky-board 
Every hue by nature spun. 

Azure blue now fills the vision. 
Tinted with a little green. 

Turning into fields elysian 

Just before the camp-fire scene. 

Soon a streak of orange courses 
Just above the eastern band ; 

Now a golden burst enforces 
All the scene above the land. 



Brighter gems of sacred tintings 
Mingle with the gauzy cloud. 

Turning paler hues to glintings 
Jjike au evauescent shroud. 

55 



The Mad River Country 

All aglow the dawn grows brighter, 
Streaming down the vale below, 

Making every dark aisle lighter 
Till the fairy splendors show. 



Then the golden sun to duty 

Seeks his throne with scepter'd hand, 
Painting all the world with beauty, 

Just as the Almighty planned. 



THE BIRTH OF POETRY 

{An Extract) 

Our God has carved and painted, sung. 

Yes, ever since the world was young. 

Go where we will, we find he hath 

Put masterpieces by our path. 

The most benighted one who trod 

That path in wonder, worshiped God; 

While creed-stuffed ears and form-filled eyes 

Are infidels when they despise 

The voice they hear in lark and thrush. 

The colors flowing from the brush 

His tireless hand forever wields 

Across our forests and our fields. 



56 



The Old Skating Pond 

THE BOB-WHITE 

I do not love the eagle 

As emblem of our soil; 
He lives on blood, with regal 

Disdain of honest toil. 

The throat of Bob-White singeth 

The spirit of my heart; 
Free as the air he wingeth, 

From choice he does his part. 

The winter gloom is over, 
The last gray sky is gone; 

Last week I broke the clover 
And I was up at dawn. 

I walked behind the plow-team 

Before the sun was up, 
Till roused from out my dawn-dream 

By gambols of the pup. 

I heard the plow go breaking 
Its furrow through the ground; 

The fresh-stirred earth was shaking 
Its odors all around. 

I heard the Bob-White making 
His love-song of the spring. 

All nature seemed awaking, 
The dawn of everything. 

57 



The Mad River Country 

The sun rose high in heaven, 
And far from any well^ 

I wished it were eleven 
To hear the dinner bell. 



I saw the horses lather, 
And sought a tree immense ; 

Unreigned and let them gather 
The grass along the fence; 

Ignored the sun-baked scenery, 
And, lying in the grass, 

I looked up in the greenery 
And let the moments pass. 

Perhaps I saw a boy grow 
Unto a station grand; 

I 'm sure I heard a sound flow 
Across the pasture land. 

The voice of Bob-White singing 
His love-song bold and free. 

Has startled me by bringing 
My duty back to me. 

This week is lazy weather. 
The earth is moist and warm ; 

To creaking steel and leather, 
I'm dropping in the corn. 

58 



The Old ^hating Pond 

The dogwood, 'neath the tree-tops, 
Now looks like drifts of snow. 

The squirrel from out his den pops 
Onto the fence below. 



Hear loud the red-head's drumming; 

But clearer and more free 
The Bob-White's note is coming 

Across the field to me. 

A peacock at the king's court, 
That struts in feathers fine, 

I know he is the king's sport; 
This countryman of mine. 

But boast your boast, ye southland. 
Ye woods of whispering pine; 

I smile and think of corn and 
A countryman of mine. 

For Bob and I are brothers. 
The offspring of this soil; 

We boast of fathers, mothers. 
Who spent their days in toil. 

Nor Bob nor I care whether 
Ye boast of blood or birth ; 

For Bob and I together 

Are feeding half the earth, 

59 



The Mad River Country 

We know that we 're not getting 
The half of what we earn, 

But know that we 're not f retting- 
The eagle's meal we spurn. 

We may not be as strong as 
These princes of the air, 

But we will last as long as 
They wheel away from care. 

I know that they will follow 
When Bob and I are gone, 

Will find that life is hollow 
Without its quail and corn. 

In autumn comes a time when 
They shoot him down with glee ; 

I think of starving children, 
Of harvests that might be. 

Oh, you, that shoot the Bob-White, 
Are slaying more than he, 

Although you may not see quite 
The future misery. 

If yeomen will not cherish 
This emblem of their blood. 

Their blood itself should perish. 
Their children cry for food. 

60 



The Old Skating Pond 

CHURCH BELLS 

Church bells ringing in the night-time, 
Lovers strolling in the gloaming 

Listening to the music's bright chime 
As their feet go idly roaming. 

Church bells, melody a-sighing, 
With the widowed heart alone, 

O'er the past a-softly crying, 

Stirred to memory by that tone; 

Gaily, too, it went a-strolling 
With a loved one, in the past; 

Now the iron tongues are tolling 
O'er the dream that did not last. 

Saddest sit the hearts a-longing 
For the love that does not come, 

Feeling fate their youth is wronging, 
Show'ring all her gold on some. 

Church bells, ringing out their notes 
Borne on the zephyrs' wings. 

Booming from their golden throats 
Music sweet as angels sing. 

Swiftly o'er the city flying, 
Softly on each ear a-falling. 

Gently at each heart a-trying, 
Unto every one a-calling. 

61 



The Mad River Country 

THE REPROOF 

Each parasite its parasite! 

A queer conceit, provoking mirth; 
Creation's lord, find in his might, 

That he may be such to the earth ! 

I saw how man was filled with life. 
Which was of him yet not his own ; 

It lived and died in furious strife. 
Contending o'er his blood and bone. 

So small, minute, it could not know 
This land, where crimson rivers roll 

Which bear their fieets upon the flow. 
Could have a life and have a soul. 

Serene, I move upon my way. 
Or pompously I go and come ; 

Nor know what worlds within me lay. 
Yet I but earth's bacterium! 

And then, to me a still voice said. 
Just as I sneered the cynic's sneer, 

So real, I started, turned my head. 
And bowed my mocking heart in fear : 

"He is no subject fit for mirth 
Whom I pronounce the salt of earth ; 
Who scorneth man, he scorneth Me 
And makes a mock of Calvary." 

62 



The Old Skating Pond 

THE STARS 

Is every star within your view 
An eye of God a-blessing you? 
And do you have a soul so pure 
You can in peace that look endure? 

Oh, is your heart a home of love? 

You calmly look in eyes above? 

And hold your tongue so free from sting 

It could with the stars of the morning sing? 

And does your ear tune acts to be, 

A note in heaven's melody? 

Your hands, they brew the soothing balms 

To heal the hurt of wounded palms? 

Eternal stars, unsleeping eyes. 
Observing acts and summing lives; 
As each one through the heavens swings. 
Who knows its part in plan of things? 

Me-thought each sun that brightly beamed 
Was face of one who 'd been redeemed, 
A beacon light to those who roam. 
From windows of their Father's home. 

Was lamp of virgin who was wise, 
Her form unseen by mortal eyes; 
Their lights upheld, they sweep along. 
Around the throne in myriad throng. 

63 



The Mad River Country 

And others hold the pearl whose price 
Was love and faith and sacrifice, 
Reflecting through the night of sin 
The light of love that burns in Him. 



A FAIRY SONG 

{Extract from ^^The Birth of Poetry'^) 

Over valley, over hill, 
High up in the sky to fill 
Full our paint-pots, nor to rest 
Until every tree is drest 
In a holiday attire 
Brighter than the sunset fire. 
Lest their scoffing cause you grief. 
Each of us will paint a leaf. 
Like the leaves in fairyland. 
Make the scoffers gaping stand; 
Here and there, perhaps, is one. 
Like a Grimm or Anderson, 
Stealing up on where we lurk. 
Catching all of us at work. 
Captures us before we start. 
Prisons us within his heart; 
Through his lips come murmuring 
Songs we prisoned fairies sing. 
Oft our magic wings expand. 
Waft him off to fairyland. 
Where our queen says, graciously, 
"Bring the handmill from the sea 

64 



The Old ^hating Pond 

And the secret then impart; 
Let him satisfy his heart." 
For a moment or an hour 
He can wield a Csesar's power, 
Make the mighty hosts of war 
March behind him, emperor. 
Well for him, though, if he find 
Heart to wish men something kind ; 
All through fairyland will seek 
Comfort for the poor and weak ; 
Finding it, his heart is light. 
Proves no burden to our flight; 
So, whene'er his soul demands. 
He can live in fairylands ; 
Bring each time, when he returns. 
Part of that for which he yearns ; 
Till men see that something gleams 
In his face, save idle dreams. 



THE DANCE OF THE FAIRIES 

A night in midsummer. 
No moon, but there came 

A million of fireflies 

That twinkled their flame. 

On each rode a fairy 
Who came with his fair. 

Light-hearted and merry. 
To wheel through the air. 

65 



The Mad River Country 

They skim o'er the grasses 
And smile at the toad, 

Who blinks as each passes 
Him by on the road. 

Each fairy a-flying 
On swift wings above, 

Is tenderly eyeing 
His own lady-love; 

And whispers so softly 

The story so old. 
That men and the fairies 

Forever have told : 



"I '11 come to you nightly 
Across the wide lea, 

And fold you so tightly. 
So closely, to me; 

"Oh, we shall have pleasure. 
And feasting, and wine. 

And all the rich treasure 
Of earth shall be thine.'' 



If secretly glowing, 
A-list to his lure. 

She hides it, not showing 
In answer demure: 

()6 



The Old Skating Pond 

"The locust and cricket 

Are sawing aiway; 
The frogs are the drums of 

A great orchestra. 

"The little drum 's rolling, 
The bigger one booms ; 

The woods and the meadows 
Have mingled perfumes. 

"All things have a myst'ry, 

An added delight, 
When nature is wrapped in 

The mantle of night. 

"Oh, come, let us gather 

This magic of June ; 
Cease riding; I rather 

Would waltz to this tune." 

"I would that my feet, then,'' 

Her lover replies, 
"Could dance as my he^rt when 

I look in your eyes. 

" 'T is not half expressing, 

But even at that, 
My feet scarce are pressing 

;The grasses down flat. 

67 



The Mad River Country 

"We cannot go dancing 

Forever and aye; 
My heart is so light it 

Will waft you away." 

The locusts fiddle, 

The green drummer drums ; 
Afar from the meadow 

The melody comes. 

The fairies are floating 
On music; they fling 

Their hearts in their voices 
And rapturously sing: 

"The little drum 's rolling. 
The bigger one booms ; 

The woods and the meadows 
Have mingled perfumes. 

"All things have a myst'ry, 

An added delight, 
When nature is wrapped in 

The mantle of night." 



THE POETS OF PASSION 

We must admit their lives unfit; 

They turned their backs on duty ; 
Their fault was that they worshiped at 

The pagan shrine of Beauty. 

68 



The Old Bhating Pond 

As apples firm may have a worm, 
So passion gnawed their reason 

And built their tomb ; forestalling doom, 
Their fruit fell out of season. 



This fruit we seize beneath the trees 
That shade our summer day; 

We love its blush with life a-flush — 
And throw the worm away. 

Our appetite gives every bite 

A taste that we remember, 
Which, to our mind, we never find 

In apples of November. 

I do not know how much we owe 

To seeds of nature's sowing. 
That summer sends, to leaf that bends 

The way the wind is blowing. 

I cannot tell how much their spell 

Is woven of the weather, 
When life is warm and with their charm 

Is flowing in together. 

They were a wood that rimming stood 
Around our little knowledge ; 

The world that acts, the world of facts, 
They never knew her college. 

69 



The Mad River Country 

Oh, they had sung and we were young 
And thought the world was singing. 

It was the joys of dreaming boys, 
Their wonderland a-bringing. 

When laughing men had mocked them, then 
They turned their back on duty, 

A-raging, since each was the Prince 
To wake the Sleeping Beauty. 

Some came and kissed, and felt they missed 

Her soul, unanimated; 
"Her soul 's a myth,'' said some, and with 

Her body fornicated. 

But we who rant a whining cant 

Will find out to our sorrow, 
Christ preached a hell more tolerable 

For Sodom and Gomorrah. 



A HYMN 

Oh, God is beautiful ; 

In everything 

I see his face 

And hear him sing. 
Oh, heart, be dutiful. 

And go and bring 

A tithe to him 

Of everything. 

70 



The Old Shating Pond 

Our God is coming down ; 
Prepare ai shining crown, 
A crown that glints and gleams 
From gems that he redeems. 
Oh, earth, be joyous, then ; 
The time is coming when 
Thy sons in peace will dwell 
And serve Immanuel. 



For God is beautiful ; 

In everything 

They see his face 
And hear him sing. 
Their hearts are dutiful, 

They haste and bring 

A tithe to him 

Of everything. 



THE BIRDS' WINTER 

When chill winds blow and scatter snow, 
The song-birds hasten South ; 

They dart away for winter's stay 
Near by some southern house. 

But game-birds bold endure the cold 
Through all the winter long ; 

They search for food in ev'ry wood 
And seldom come out wrong. 

71 



The Mad River Country 

The jay-bird, blue as azure hue, 
Screams with the northern blast. 

Till hunger's pain starts him again 
To seek the hidden mast. 



Then off in haste to woodland waste, 

He pecks at every hole; 
The cranny's hub gives up its grub 

To feed his hungry soul. 

The sentry crow endures the snow 

In haunts of woodlands wild ; 
He heaves a caw from empty craw 

And wishes weather mild. 

His rasping greed calls out for feed 

Throughout the gloomy day ; 
He flaps along on pinion strong 

To make his forage pay. 

The spoils disclose just what he chose — 

The farmer's bin of corn ; 
Sometimes, perhaps, he steals from the chaps 

Who have a mouth of horn. 



Grand Bob-White too, all winter through. 
Remains with Neighbor Brown ; 

And if by lot he shun the shot. 
He never visits town. 

72 



The Old Shatifig Pond 

But on the snow his light tracks show 

From autumn on to spring; 
In every nook along the brook 

He makes his whistle ring. 

Tree buntings light, from morn till night, 
Review the grove with care; 

The berries dry, on branches high, 
Make up their bill-of-fare. 

They flit with glee from tree to tree. 
Through winds that sadly blow ; 

By force of will they scale the hill, 
All chirping as they go. 

And other birds of fewer words 

Are native to the soil ; 
These hunt and slave for all they crave. 

By constant, honest toil. 

Yet all this crew are but a few 
Compared with those that go 

To shun the chill of winter's will 
And gain the tepid glow. 

A countless throng of gifted song 

Betake themselves away. 
And all by night sustain their flight 

To gain some southern bay. 

73 



The Mad River Country 

The bright of robe, from true adobe, 

Set out for sunny skies ; 
For many days, through autumn haze, 

The night-watch hears their cries. 

All that are fond of lake or pond. 

Or scream along the run. 
Take up the flight like Franklin's kite 

To seek the Southern sun. 



We lose the note of the orange throat 

From August until May, 
When cherry bloom and spider's loom 

Invite him back this way. 

Fleet bobolink and gay hoodwink 

Adhere to custom strong; 
They too unite in southward flight 

To sing a Southern song. 

And birds of prey all go away 

As summer turns to fall, 
And now we sigh to hear their cry 

While winter blankets all. 

They all remain till spring again 
Assumes the scepter's sway ; 

Then with the gale, o'er hill and dale. 
They wing the Northern way. 

74 



The Old Shating Pond 

And tuneful lays, through sunny days, 
Resound in concerts sweet, 

AVhich everywhere at once declare 
That birds and springtime meet. 



THE CROCUS 

Sweetly comes the glad refrain 

From sodless heaps of anxious mould. 

Calling back to growth again 
The crocus from its wintry fold. 

Noiseless at his vernal task. 

The sun pours out his gentle rays. 

Leading tender shoots to bask 
In sunshine of the halcyon days. 

Bluebirds from Bermuda sing. 
Prophetic, on the sylvan gale. 

Roundelays of coming spring — 
Bright harbingers that never fail. 

Faintly tinted meadows green. 
Prospective of the new-mown hay. 

Mingle golden hues between 

The riches of the lengthening day. 

Spotted lawns with crocus bloom, 
Be-dyed with many a floweret's hue. 

Richly wove in nature's loom 
By efforts ever from the blue. 

75 



The Mad River Country 

Neatly curled in artful way 

Among the blades of livid green, 

Brilliant tints half hidden play, 
Half basking in the sun-east sheen. 

Urged before the ceaseless roll 
Of all the race of gentle bloom, 

Nature paints her matchless boll 
With tintings of a royal room. 

Each one holds a painted cup 

By night to catch the falling dew, 

That each one, with a daily sup, 
Might hold its colors forth anew. 

Yellow, red, and purple hue. 
Indeed, the rainbow^'s colors all. 

Are seen in streakings ever true 
Before the waning tulips fall. 



Admiration fills your soul 

When all the beauties meet your eye ; 
Tulip beds are Easter's goal. 

That smile upon an Easter sky. 

Passing beauty thus entrapt 
Within a single crocus bloom, 

Just one day 't will be unwrapt. 
Then, fading, fall to meet its doom. 

76 



The Old Shating Pond 

Thus I long to linger here 
And grow unto a perfect soul, 

Fade without a single fear, 
In answer to the final roll. 



THE SEARCHLIGHT 

Though life is but a shadow brief 

Moved by the world along 
Through wrongs endured or mystic grief 
That make the pilgrim strong, 
Yet all along the pathway bright 
The searchlight flashes golden light. 

Across the rolling plains' expanse, 

Through valleys wide and low. 
Where interurban trollies dance 
While transports swiftly go, 

The searchlight throws its beams ahead 
Like rockets o'er the dead. 

Along the railway's winding route 

O'er mountains thinly veiled. 
Through tunnels long and arched about 
Where freights are often trailed. 
The searchlight plunges brightly on 
Through darkness until dawn. 

From lake to lake, from sea to sea. 
Where waters deep are found, 

77 



The Mad River Country 

The prows of ships are moving free, 
All for a haven bound; 

O'er every course where dangers sleep, 
The searchlights' currents sweep. 

Along the mighty ocean shore, 

Before the open bay, 
When near the rocks, each commodore. 
Lost to the light of day. 

With all the keenness of his soul 
Sails for the beacon goal. 

The auto and the auto-truck 
Speed proudly on their way ; 
And as they keep the limit struck. 
They pass the turn of day. 

And through the falling shades of night. 

The searchlight leads aright. 

Across the vision of the sight 

At every angle made. 
The searchlight on its pinions bright 
Sweeps through the quiet shade. 
Like a comet trailing through the blue. 
Long flashes of a golden hue. 

When low-hung clouds have gathered o'er 

The starry heavens high. 
When torrents rage and thunders roar 
Beneath the hidden sky. 

The searchlight of most ancient brand 
Zigzags the sodden land. 

78 



The Old Skating Pond 

O'er pastures broad in Palestine 

Among Judean hills, 
When Christ was born among the kine 
Beside Judean rills, 

Then, flashing o'er the plains afar. 
The searchlight was a star. 



THE MONITOR 

Oh, hear me sing a little song 

That poet ne'er has sung; 
I do not sing it to the old, 

I sing it to the young. 

The older folks, you know full well. 

Are bound by habits strong. 
And in their ways forever set 

Beyond the tide of song. 

So one might sing the ages through 

And wear his life away; 
That which is formed must formed remain 

In spite of song to-day. 

Hence, let me to the younger sing 

This little song sincere; 
I will not sing it very loud. 

But rather low and clear. 

79 



The Mad River Country 

For young folks long to be endued 
With meter and with rhyme, 

With music from Apollo's lyre 
And thoughts of life sublime. 

Then, counsel not with wrong to-day ; 

Sit not in seats of scorn ; 
But as you work or as you play, 

Be like an incensed morn. 



Secure your armor for the fray 
With caution and with care; 

Be searchers of the Scripture pure 
And join in secret prayer. 

Be honest with yourself, as well 
As with the crowd you meet. 

And you will find as others found, 
A lamp to guide your feet. 

Be grateful for a willing mind 

To aid you in your work ; 
You 're sure to meet good fortune when 

There is no chance to shirk. 

Conspire against the tempter's wiles 
With all the might you hold, 

And prove your worth to be as good 
As royal blue or gold. 

80 



The Old Skating Pond 

Control your service always for 
Each moment's crying need, 

And you shall reap eternal praise 
For every noble deed. 

Have faith in all you know to be 

Your duty to a friend ; 
Then strive to mete full measure out 

Unmindful of the end. 



Then enter life's unfolding race 
Convicted of the truth ; 

Not one retreating step retrace — 
Be constant, Moab's Ruth. 



THE REDWING AND THE WREN 

When the gentle breezes blow, 
When the furry catkins grow, 
Then the beauty of the glen 
Lures the redwing and the wren 
To the music of the streamlet's rippling flow. 



First they rock upon the twig, 
Then they dart, and take a swig 
Of the liquid from the brook 
In that shady little nook 
Where the gurgling little streamlet plays a jig. 

81 



The Mad River Country 

Up into the tree they soar, 
As they 've done so oft' before, 
To inhale the sunny air, 
Which the streamlet cannot share 
As it gurgles off its jingles by the score. 

Soon into a little notch, 
Or the willow's joining crotch, 
Kedwing ties her woven nest 
Ere she takes a wonted rest. 
While the streamlet gurgles through another watch. 

But our handsome Billy Wren 
Seeks the tangle of the glen, 
That will shield his little wife 
As she broods her young to life. 
While the streamlet's music echoes o'er the fen. 



Thus the season hurries through; 
Home life never was more true 
Than is lived here in the glen 
By the redwing and the wren. 
While the streamlet gurgles music down the slue. 

Thus should we and other men 
Learn this lesson of the glen : 
That when honest faith obtains. 
Life is free from aching pains. 
And the bliss of heaven beckons freely then. 

82 



The Old ^hating Pond 

THE TUMBLE BUG 

Whenever, whenever 

I started and strode, 
In summer, in summer, 

On dusty highroad, 

On meeting, on meeting 

A little, black bug, 
With ball it, with ball it 

Would fondle and hug. 

A-kicking, a-kicking, 

Then tumble and fall, 
But adding, but adding 

More filth to its ball; 

That covered, that covered 

An egg of its own. 
But looked like, but looked like 

It was filth alone. 

"A gossip! A gossip!'' 

I stopped to exclaim; 
Your work and her ways are 

Alike and the same. 



EPITAPH OF A GOSSIP 

Oh, she had a tongue 

Like the tail of a skunk; 
Whenever it swung. 

The neighborhood stunk. 

83 



The Mad River Country 

THE YOUNG LADY SO GOOD 

There was a young lady so good 
That she would not even chew wax. 

Of course, I could lie if I would, 
But then I am telling the facts. 

She married a fellow quite meek, 

A quiet and toilsome sort, 
Too busy a-thinking to speak, 

Entirely too slow for a sport. 

He found the young lady so good 

Had rather a talkative vein ; 
He stood it as long as he could. 

Then slept with the dog in the rain. 

She talked, and he drank and he died ; 

Her mouth and his booze burnt him up ; 
She couldn't have wept if she tried ; 

She was glad she could bury the pup. 

And then the young lady so good 
She went and got married again, 

A fellow just hunting for food 
And somewhere in out of the rain. 

But when the young lady so good 
Would hurl out these bitter, hard facts. 

He would stand it as long as he could. 
Then silently, hand her — some wax. 

84 



The Old Skating Pond 

And he says that she really is good 
(As long as she 's chewing her wax) ; 

Of course, I could lie if I would, 
But now I am telling the facts. 



THE MILLS OF GOD 

Hush ye, my daughter, keep silent until 

A little more water runs under the mill ; 

Cease your fault-finding and learn ere your death 

A wheel where God 's grinding will turn not hj breath. 

Have ye such weakness that ye cannot wait? 
Patience and Meekness, who standing by the gate. 
Dark though the morning and dreary and bleak. 
Heeding a> warning, though weary and weak. 
Rose with a shiver and, through the cold mist 
That rolled from the river, rode here with their grist. 

Comely and pleasant, or homely to see. 
Princess or peasant, of highest degree. 
Lowly, obscure, or wide-known to fame. 
Wealthy or poor, you must wait for your name. 

Slow they are grinding yet crushing it small. 
For the Miller is finding and sifting it all. 
Wait till the dusk ; those gone in an hour 
Went with the husk, not the fine, bolted flour. 

85 



The Mad River Country 

THE MOTHER'S BLOOD 

Each longing for truth in my heart, 
Each impulse for ideals to strain, 

Dear mother, I feel is a part 

Of thy germinal drop in my veins. 

And oft in my bosom I feel 

A part of my being aloof 
Regarding the part that seems real 

With a look of disgust and reproof. 

You ask me how, then, do I trace 
These plain imperfections of mine. 

Oh, man is much mothered by place. 
And somewhat he 's fathered by time. 

But whether he rise or he fall. 

When even fate boldest the scales, 

Or standing with back to the wall. 
By this drop he then conquers or fails. 



OHIO 

There 's a flower that blooms perennial. 
Springing up from memory's earth. 

Planted at the first centennial 
Held to mark Ohio's birth. 

When Ohio has a birthday. 
Calls her children to her side, 

86 



The Old Skating Pond 

All her distant, scattered sons, they 

Come, acknowledge her with pride. 
Words from men of great affairs 

Heard I with humility; 
From no seedling thought of theirs 

Sprang the flower that blooms for me. 
From the town of Chillicothe 

I had climbed the ^^Uplands" steep, 
Where, above the waters frothy. 

Lie our governors asleep; 
I had looked across Scioto ; 

Looked at Logan, did not feel 
That I saw the least iota 

Of the great Ohio seal ; 
Had descended, saw the muster 

And excitement of the crowd ; 
Saw parading floats a-cluster. 

Heard the bands a-braying loud ; 
I had traveled to the trampled 

And the tented meeting ground. 
In the thought that there was sampled 

Had no seed of floweret found. 
For there came the monarch, Hanna, 

Lord of politics and pelf. 
And he tried to feed us manna 

That he would not eat himself ; 
Mouthings of a moral nature. 

Deemed appropriate to the spot; 
No corrupted legislature 

Hinted at in words he brought. 

87 



The Mad River Country 

He, the man who served the classes 

With his power, was out of place, 
When he looked down at the masses, 

Met an ideal face to face. 
Axiom, moral, maxim, truth ; 

Uttered as with earnestness ; 
He, a world man, I, a youth, 

Yet with pride will I confess, 
Though from June unto November 

All he said was dinned and dinned, 
Yet no word could I remember. 

For no Lord was in the wind. 
Oh, it is insipid nostrum 

Which they shake and shake and shake, 
Others thunder till the rostrum 

Trembles with a verbal quake. 
We have heard their wind and quaking. 

We have seen their feeble fire; 
But no still, small Voice is breaking 

Through the silence to inspire. 
One did speak Elijah then; 

Why do we Ohioians fail? 
Have we seven thousand men 

Who have never bowed to Baal? 
Mother, we have come aryearning. 

From secluded, distant parts; 
Must we go from you, returning 

Home with heavy, empty hearts? 
Will they let this moment perish? 

Even golden moments must; 



The Old Shating Pond 

Plant no flower our sons will cherish 

While we moulder in the dust? 
When again our loving mother 

Calls her wandering children home, 
Not to tent, perhaps that other 

Meeting has a golden dome, 
We, who come from town and village, 

Come from city, country-side. 
Who have left our toil and tillage. 

Will have folded hands and died. 
But if skies, alone, shall cover. 

Move each till he understands. 
That our loving spirits hover 

Over him with blessing hands. 

Then a bishop, rising slow, 

Man whose name I never saw. 
With his birth-place in Ohio, 

And his home in Omaha ; 
With a face of iv'ry whiteness. 

Setting in a silver frame. 
With a step of grace and lightness 

Out onto the rostrum came. 
Men could sense or feel or see 

That his bearing there proclaimed 
Him a man of victory, 

Who the lion, sin, had tamed. 
And his voice was high or rolling, 

Fitted for a temple chant. 
Like a lute or bell a-tolling, 

Ringing silver, resonant. 

89 



The Mad River Country 

Every shade of sense expressing, 

As it floats, or soars, or sinks, 
From command to soft caressing. 

All his words are golden links. 
Oh, the vine that is entwining. 

Which no frost of time can dim, 
Is the white-haired bishop, lining 

Out our nation's battle-hymn. 
First the people sit in wonder ; 

Then, in awe uprising, sing ; 
I can hear tliat rolling thunder, 

And that orchestra a-swing. 
For the hearts that long have slumbered 

Like they lay in graves, alone. 
There \s an angel in this music 

That can roll away the stone. 
I can see their spirits forming 

As the martial measures come ; 
I can hear each heart a-warming, 

Beat its spirit's battle-drum. 
Oh, my limbs they were a-shaking 

And my body was a-chill ; 
But my soul it was awaking 

And the spirit was a-thrill. 
And I raised mine eyes to Hanna, 

Where, uncrowned, he sat, a king, 
And I spat away his manna. 

And I raised mine heart to sing : 

^^Mine eyes have seen the glory 
Of the coming of the Lord; 

90 



The Old ^hating Pond 

We We trampling out the vintage 

Where the grapes of wrath are stored; 
His day is marching on/' 

I can hear the music ringing 

Like a mighty angel choir ; 
I can hear that bishop singing, 

With his holy face afire : 

^^In the glory of the lilies, 

Christ was horn across the sea; 

With a love within his hosom 
That transfigures you and me; 

As he died to make men holy, 
Let us die to make men free; 
His day is marching on, 

^^Glory, glory, glory, hallelujah. 
Glory, glory ^ glory, hallelujah. 
Glory, glory, glory, hallelujah, 
His day is marching on/' 

To these memories comes another : 

How the stranger's mouth was fed ; 
I have heard that busy mother 

Soon was numbered with the dead. 
God 's the judge of every ^torj ; 

Shall ye judge if I, awhile, 
Up beside the bishop's glory, 

Put a patient woman's smile? 

91 



The Mad River Country 

Night has come, and crowds are wending, 

Waiting for the creeping trains, 
While a drum-corps rolls unending 

Beating out their old refrains. 
Boyhood but a hell of horrors. 

Drumming Sherman to the sea; — 
Near the end of manhood's sorrows. 

Drafted for eternity ; — 
And we knew that they were feeling 

That their marching days were o'er ; 
And I felt my spirit kneeling 

Down before the look they wore ; 
Felt these grizzled warriors, maybe. 

Underneath that night of June, 
Thought that soothing fretful baby 

Was their last and sweetest tune. 



When I heard a drum-corps rolling. 

Where the little children stand. 
Then I know the past is strolling 

With the future, hand in hand. 
Oh, these songs are but the calling 

From the voices never dead ; 
Will the future keep a-falling 

In behind the band ahead? 
Far away it starts ascending. 

Mounting high above the crowds. 
On its distant way a-Avending 

Off across the golden clouds. 

92 



The Old Skating Pond 

There 's a flower that blooms perennial, 

Springing up from memories' earth, 
Planted at the first centennial 

Held to mark Ohio's birth. 
Oh, the vine that is entwining 

Which no frost of time can dim, 
Is the white-haired bishop lining 

Out our nation's ^^Battle Hymn." 
When a night comes soft and stilly. 

Then the flower that blooms for me 
Is the bishop's glorious lily 

Prom the lands across the sea; 
And the scent 's the hope Ohio, 

When this generation 's gone. 
Has, the sons that always will go. 

With His day, a-marching on. 



LIBERTY 

Another name for God! 

and sacrificial blood 
Will pour before that name 

in never-ending flood ; 
And sires, like Abraham, 

have dimly understood. 
And brought their sons before 

this altar of the good. 
Oh, Liberty ! but not 

as deemed by those who raise 
Their voices highest on 

the nation's holidays; 

93 



The Mad River Country 

Oh^ Liberty, but not 

the one of selfish might ; 
But liberty to live, 

which means to live the right. 
AYhat is the right? He lives 

the right who lives to serve 
Some new-born hope for men, 

or hard-pressed worthy cause, 
With consecrated heart 

that prays to never swerve, 
When all the rabble jeers, 

gives enemies applause. 
He lives the right who flees 

not from the vague ideal, 
But firmly lives it till 

his living makes it real. 
And he that has not some 

high passion, does not live ; 
He has no spark that God 

can blow until it give 
A flame eternal, bright, 

a flame to melt his dross. 
Our small and counted good 

doled out's a total loss. 
Author of Liberty ! 

though King of kings are ye. 
Ye lived in brotherhood, 

the pattern for the free. 
Set us at liberty 

from cringing cowardice ; 

94 



The Old ^hating Pond 

Give us the faith to make 

our puny strength suffice; 
Set us at liberty 

from cunning calculation; 
Give us the men to lead, 

in righteousness, the nation. 
Thou art, oh. Liberty, 

not license for the fool. 
But good of fellow men, — 

thou art the Golden Rule! 
The liberty to serve, 

the liberty to love. 
In liberty we dream 

the face of God above ! 



THE BALLAD OF GETTYSBURG 

The sons of James, of Roanoke, 

Of Coosa and Savannah, 
Were marching north to battle with 

The sons of Susquehannah. 

With Hooker fresh from Chancellorsville, 

Would history be repeating? 
The North, her heart was standing still. 

But all her drums were beating! 

But Lincoln sent the quiet Meade 
Before the thunder shook her. 

To take command and supercede 
The fiery, fighting Hooker. 

95 



The Mad River Country 

They burnt the wooden bridge across 
The Susquehannah River; 

Till Meade should have a heavy loss, 
The cities ceased to shiver. 



The armies stood like blinded men, 

Each for the other groping ; 
And each one of the other, then. 

Was fearing more than hoping. 

Then, up by Adams county-seat, 
There burst a sound appalling. 

The cannon hungry for his meat 
And, like the lion, calling. 

And then, for fifty miles around. 

The world was all a-rattle. 
And Death went dancing to the sound. 

Drunk with the blood of battle. 

Their teams were lame and collar-sore. 
The dust was getting thicker ; 

But bursting in a tavern door 
They grabbed the stock of liquor; 

They rushed the cannon down to where 
- A limb was hanging handy ; 
They jerked the horses' heads in air. 
And drenched them full of brandy ! 

96 



The Old Skating Pond 

Though marching twenty miles that day, 
They were not caring whether 

'T was twenty more, but went away, 
A-pouring in the leather. 

The cannon reels on whirring wheels, 

A-drug by drunken horses, 
And bayonets gleam and footmen stream 

From twenty different sources. 

Along the Pennsylvanian roads 

Are reinforcements rushing, 
While Death, disguised as Honor, goads 

With cannon, never hushing. 

Then march, oh, march ! for soon, in truth. 

Your marching will be over ; 
You '11 find your bed, oh, weary youth, 

Upon the trampled clover. 

Behold where all the day has been 

The shock of meeting forces. 
And, high above the horrid din. 

The scream of wounded horses. 



A dying sun and dying men, 

And hill-sides red with slaughter; 

Then all was silence, saving when 
The wounded cried for water. 

97 



The Mad River Country 

Though men have many ways to slay, 
Few are their ways of dying; 

They only sob or curse or pray, 
When Death's dread shape espying. 

But beardless boys must make their moan 

Upon their entrails gory, 
And meet, in darkness. Death, alone, 

To make a field of glory. 

For men will have no other way 

To shatter a delusion; 
And so there dawned another day 

Of fury and confusion. 

When evening came, the leaders met 

To talk of their condition; 
They stood some show of winning, yet 

Were short of ammunition. 

Then Lee at last the silence broke, 

His plan of victory seeing; 
The others listened ; no one spoke 

But Longstreet, disagreeing : 

"Of such a plan there is no need, 
The blood will flow in fountains ; 

I say, retreat and wait till Meade 
Is tangled in the mountains." 



The Old Skating Pond 

And Pickett looked and caught his breath, 

He held the same opinion ; 
Old Peter's nod will send to death 

The sons of Old Dominion. 

Lee listened with a patient air; 

In quiet words, so like him, 
He said, "My enemy is there. 

And there I mean to strike him/' 

Late in the hours of morning came 

The monumental blunder ; 
Four hundred cannons' smoke and flame 

Koared out in awful thunder. 

They roared until the very hills 
Did rock on their foundation. 

Until the bursting fury fills 
With clamor all creation. 

They ceased, and down the eastern slope. 
Like hive of bees a-swarming. 

All void of fear and void of hope. 
Is Pickett's line ai-forming. 

Two cannon shots ! The hour of fate ! 

The Yankees cease their firing ; 
They stand with bated breath and wait. 

Half fearing, half admiring. 

99 



The Mud River Country 

That line was by a ruler made ; 

It came across the valley 
As though it were a dress parade, 

And not a desperate sally! 

Two hundred guns across their track 

The canister were shelling ! 
Ten thousand throats were sending back 

That high stacatto yelling ! 

Though Death, across his harvest field, 
His scythe is hugely sweeping, 

Though Spartan eyes, a-watching, yield 
To weakness and to weeping. 

Though balls, like rain from rolling banks, 
Against their breasts are drumming, 

Behold them close their shattered ranks ! 
'T is Old Dominion coming ! 

Though round their feet a crimson flood 
From many a fount is spreading, 

Still, through the dying brother's blood. 
The living brother 's treading ! 

The men in gray were coming, but — 
Oh, how the cannon thundered. 

And rained the canister, and cut 
A thousand to a hundred ! 

100 



The Old Skating Pond 

But Pickett's men will cross the wall 
And pierce the Union center; 

Then, being but a handful, fall 
Back through the point they enter. 

Ten thousand marching forth to drums, 
A handful backward creeping! 

And down to meet the fragment comes 
The gray-haired Lee a-weeping. 

" 'T was all my fault; you did your best," 

He, brokenly, was saying ; 
^^Now help me try to save the rest.'' — 

No word of blame a-laying. 

Had Longstreet done as he was bade, 
Had Pickett been supported. 

Since then the muse of history had 
Another tale reported! 



OLD GLORY 

Every nation has a flag. 

An emblem of a solemn choice. 

Streaming high above the crag 
To make the hearts of all rejoice. 

Proudly on the land and sea. 

Each banner plays upon the wind. 

Indicating, as the tree. 

The fruits of every nation's mind. 

101 



The Mad River Country 

In their midst unfurled serene, 
Bedecked in triune colors three. 

Freedom's banner plainlj^ seen, 
Conceived by hearts entirely free. 

Firmly on the battle-plain, 

At Saratoga long ago, 
Freedom caught the glad refrain 

That triumphed o'er the British foe. 

Since that year of fair renown. 
Impaled within that field of blue 

Other stars fill up the crown 

To shoot their silver rays as true. 

Each new star imbedded there 

Conveys this message to the world : 

That another State as fair 

Accepts Old Glory, thus unfurled. 

Joined in Statehood thus secure. 
Reflecting freedom's tenets strong. 

Proves the Union must endure 
As all the ages glide along. 

Alternating stripes aglow. 

Speak out in terms of true import ; 
One of heroes here below, 

And one of heaven's higher court. 

102 



The Old Skating Pond 

"Rock of Ages'' may compel 
Benighted sinners to repent; 

But the flag we love so well 
Deserves no song of discontent. 

Banner of the good man's home, 
Unfurl in beauty at his door ; 

Brightly beam above the dome 

That shares the burden of the poor. 

Wave beneath the morning sun ; 

Engrave thy colors on the land, 
Planting there, as men have done, 

Imprints upon the shining sand. 



FRAGMENTS OF NATURE 

In early spring when everything 

Assumes its active way. 
All forms of life in pleasant strife 

Engage the vernal day. 

The sportive wren throughout the glen 

Pours forth his happy lay ; 
While to the wood, in noisy mood. 

In wranglings move the jay. 

The squirrels gray, at frisky play, 

Amuse the passer-by 
With antics keen upon the green, 

As all about they hie. 

103 



The Mad River Country 

The gorgeous glow, unknown to snow, 

Illumines every mead 
With colors rare of flowers fair 

That shoot from root and seed. 



The mystic shrine of eglantine 
Invites the sparrow kind, 

To weave between the tules of green 
A nest to suit her mind. 

The gopher small, asleep since fall. 

Parades the hill again ; 
To left and right, with keenest sight. 

He guards his tunneled den. 

About the pond the children fond 

Retreat in truant style 
To hear and see all nature free 

And fish for bass awhile. 

The grassy slope where honest hope 

Assures the days of May 
That berries red will bring the tread 

Of human folk that way. 

The quiet lane across the plain 
Grows bright in rich array, 

And forms alive from every hive 
Zigzag the fields of grain. 

104 



The Old Skating Pond 

T is gladness all where beauty's call 
Bedecks the spring again 

With anxious care and jewels rare, 
To please the eyes of men. 



AN IDYL OF LENORE 

Gentle Venus, pure and sweet, 
Let our fancies kindly meet, 
Sing of beauty and of grace, 
While we roam celestial space, 
Pausing when Dame Duty calls 
Up a vision that enthralls. 

Visions come and then depart, 
Like the throbbings of the heart. 
Sweetly moving life along 
On the wings of winning song. 
To describe a vision rare. 
Is the mission now to dare. 

'T is a vision strangely rare 
Of a maiden blithe and fair — 
Fair as Eden's maid divine 
Ere she met the ills of time; 
Purity, her innocence. 
Beauty is her eloquence. 

Fairy eyes of hazel brown 
Sparkle with a smile or frown ; 

lOS 



The Mad River Country 

Lashes bend with gentle curve, 
Brow serene in ebon swerve; 
Tresses dark to overflow 
Marble tracings just below. 

Throat and shoulder to agree, 
Furrowed in the liverie 
Of the royal vein of blue 
Coursing through the marble hue, 
Blending all in pensive grace, 
Playing to her model face. 

Fancy kindles into flame 
As the vision does the same; 
Adoration fails to do 
Justice in its long review. 
Thus the maiden, blithe and fair. 
Charms in beauty strangely rare. 



CUPID'S BATTLE 

Swinging in a hammock 
Near a rocky ledge, 

A tender, happy couple 
Sought a lifelong pledge. 

He was rather dusky ; 

She was quite as fair 
As often-courted Venus, 

Wearing golden hair. 

106 



The Old Skating Pond 

He from rolling prairie, 
Schooled in high degree, 

Emulating courage, 
Fostered by the free. 

Dressed in Western fashion. 
Plumes upon his head. 

Doing instant action 
When by duty led. 

They encountered subjects 
Trifling or supreme. 

Fitting to their station. 
Born of magic dream. 

She, in dainty 'parel. 

Pondered while he spoke. 

Soon embraced by slumber 
Dreamed a battle broke. 



Fairy soldiers fighting. 
Contest hand to hand. 

Doing fervent scoring 
For a youthful band. 

Fighting grew more earnest ; 

Smiles changed into tears ; 
Then, like rifts in cloudland. 

Peace allayed all fears. 

107 



The Mad River Country 

Cupid, as the captain 

Of this fairy fray, 
With his keen acumen 

Banished fears away. 

Just before awaking, 

Fears crept to her brain. 

All because an arrow 
Pierced her heart amain. 

But the wily vision 

Left her in degree 
Loath to bear an answer 

If by right should she. 

Just as if divining. 

From her troubled face. 

What intense foreboding 
Left its wonted trace, 

He began the question 
Filling all his heart, 

Which, before completed. 
Made his pulses start. 

But the kindly maiden, 
Knowing all his love, 

Finished the agreement, 
(jruided from above. 

108 



The Old Skating Pond 

Thus the couple yielded 

While the stars looked down, 

Adding heaven's blessing 
For a bridal crown. 



CROSSING THE BRIDGE 

We crossed the bridge in the gloaming, 
When sweetly the music went roaming 
From a distant dingy tower 
Proclaiming the twilight hour. 

As leaning over the railing, 
We heard the water bewailing, 
Lamenting to journey along. 
Ever singing a doleful song. 

Cool zephyrs softly were sighing; 
The daylight slowly was dying. 
Reminding the pilgrim of doom. 
Exacting a thought of the tomb. 

We watched the flare of the evening 
Betoken the golden orb leaving. 
Waving adieu from the west 
To all whom he loveth the best. 

The fragments of clouds reappearing 
Were vessels of vapor careering 
Across the vast ocean of blue 
Like many a birch-bark canoe. 

109 



The Mad River Country 

The balm of the zephyrs was soothing, 
And love of beauty kept oozing 
From precincts deep down in the soul, 
As sparks issue forth from a coal. 

In sweet communion we tarried, 
Our spirits heavenward carried 
In ecstacy pure and sublime, 
Begotten, not issued by time. 

Above the hills, in confusion, 
A vaporous kind of illusion. 
Assuming the vision to bless, 
Surpassing my words to express. 

Across the wide arch before us, 
A chorus of minstrels came o'er us. 
Who, chanting their anthem above, 
Sang sweetly the essence of love. 

We swooned there under the vision, 
Enrapt by the lack of decision. 
And nature's great temple of art. 
Subduing and winning the heart. 

The scene in the west again changing. 
We paused just to watch the arranging. 
When a brush an Angelo knew, 
Traced streamers of gold through the blue. 

110 



The Old Skating Pond 

How fondly we stood there a-musing, 
While hues were blending and fusing, 
Then melting, and molding anew 
The hearts into one that were two. 



VICKSBUKG AND GETTYSBURG 

'T was the summer of Sixty-three, 

When Hooker was shadowing Lee 
From the hills of Old Virginia far away ; 

And our bravest lads in blue 

In the land where cotton grew 
Met the Dixie lads in uniforms of gray. 

'T was the year of freedom's call 

That had made the shackles fall 
From millions of the Southland's galley slaves. 

Now, the battle in the North 

Yielded to the sterling worth 
Of the old Potomac's bands of legion braves. 

'T was a battle fiercely fought, 
And the carnage that it wrought 

Fairly deluged the field with precious blood ; 
And when Pickett made his charge 
With his legions brave and large. 

Then the battlefield put on its gory flood. 

But it proved to General Lee 
That it was a mighty plea 
For the Proclamation to become supreme. 

Ill 



The Mad River Country 

He retreated southward then 
With his baggage and his men, 
Firm persuaded that invasion was a dream. 

^Pon the South, a mighty scar ; 

'Pon the North, the turn of war. 
Did that contest fought at Gettysburg bestow. 

All the courage clothed in gray. 

Or the cause of Southern sway. 
Could not dim the star of freedom all aglow. 

But the Southern city strong. 

Where the river flowed along. 
Seemed beyond the cannon's mighty pow'r. 

So the stubborn siege went on 

Till the city's food was gone. 
Then it yielded, just as others had before. 

'T was a splendid effort tried 

By the sons of Dixie pride. 
To repulse the army Grant led to the siege; 

But the effort was in vain. 

For the awful, wasting strain 
Brought starvation face to face to lord and liege. 

Thus the armies of the blue 

In the cause of freedom true. 
Won great battles from contending foes sincere, 

Pulsing strains of freedom's song 

Reannounced in meter long 
Freedom's tenets that each freeman holds so dear. 

112 



The Old Shating Pond 

THE LITTLE GRAY BUNNY 

A little, gray bunny went hopping 
In a little, green grove, one day. 

Around, around, without stopping. 
In a kind of hop-about play. 

He turned the pond at the middle 
Of the little, green grove, that day; 

To follow was quite a hard riddle. 
The bunny was full of his play. 

A little, sharp bark soon frightened 
The little, gray bunny at play ; 

His hopping was suddenly heightened, 
Refusing to hold out at bay. 

So, into the dingle he hurried ; 

The little dog closely pursued ; 
Often the bunny was flurried 

By barking so often renewed. 

Along the run in the hollow. 

Quickening the chase as they bound. 

Over the mead and the follow. 

Then back to the dingle they 're found. 

His burrow now beckoned the bunny, 
True safety inviting that way; 

So many may think it quite funny, 
But barking was loser that day. 

113 



The Mud River Country 



THE WINTRY WEATHER 

I love the wintry weather ; 
I love the crossing streets ; 
The walking down together 
With a stranger that one meets. 
Along the street he goes, 
A drop hangs on his nose, 
And as he breathes and blows 
It gently ebbs and flows. 
I love his cheerful flow 
Of careless words, but, oh, 
The little drops that all 
Go trembling to their fall 
Move me to sympathy. 
But often, still, I see 
With many a playful lunge 
One dancing gleeful-e. 
Before he takes the plunge. 
As poets do declare. 
There's beauty everywhere; 
And so my heart has proved 
By the way its strings are moved. 
Oh, how the being thrills 
In walking by such rills ! 
I love the wintry weather; 
I love the crossing streets ; 
The walking down together 
With a stranger that one meets. 

114 



The Old Skating Pond 

DE LAS' JOKE 

De tempuchiiali had drop' ; 

'T was cole beyond belief ; 
De pot friz on de top 

While b'ilin' undahneaf . 

So when Ah b'iled mah rice, 
Steam bubbled frum below, 

A-bustin' fru de ice 

An' droppin' back ez snow. 

De snow wah six inch' deep 
Upon dat red-hot stobe; 

Hit made me hump t' keep 
De wood in frum de grobe. 

Hit wah so cole dat when 
Ah wants t' git me drunk, 

An' asks foh whiskey, den 
Dey chips me off a chunk. 

Hit wah so cole. Ah seen 
Dat Ah would freeze t' def ; 

So Ah drinks gasoline. 

Holds matches t' mah bref . 

Lak agents an' promotahs 
And uddah hot-ayah men 

Dat slaps de backs ob votahs, 
Wah all dat 's libin' den. 

115 



The Mad River Country 

Ah sleeps, de coldes' spell, 
Down in the cremahtory; 

Ah meets a fr'en', an' tell 
T' him a funny story. 

An' when de tale wah tole, 
He ope' his mouf so wide, 

An' de atmusfeah so cole 
Hit freeze dat man's hinside ! 



Ah hates t' talk ob sorrah ; 
But ez foh tales ob fun, 
Ah kain't fohgit de horrah 



A DOG 

He breaks a dozen laws ; 

His life is full of sins ; 
But — I like a dog, because 

He wags his tail and grins. 



THE HAUNTED MAN 

I lie awake ; I cannot take 

A single hour of sleep ; 
My soul does quake, my reason shake, 

Nor silence can I keep. 

116 



The Old Skating Pond 

I had a friend I helped to send 

Down into purgatory. 
Attention lend, for here is penned 

The sad, pathetic story. 

When things are bad and I am sad, 

He always, meeting me, 
Would look so sad as if he had 

A heart of sympathy. 

I would begin, my sorrow spin. 
And when my heart had bled. 

He had a grin that would run in 
And hide behind his head. 

At last the hour he went too far, 

As I anticipated; 
His mouth at par without a scar 

Himself decapitated. 

Oh, once I fled, but now instead 
I rushed around to where 

I saw through red his empty head 
Was tethered by a hair. 

^^Your hair is thin ; you should begin 
To use some barber tonic; 

Or have you been?'' kept saying, in 
Solicitude ironic. 

117 



The Mad River Country 

I laid a snare ; I did prepare 
A tale to make him scol¥ ; 
And standing there without a bair 
He grinned his fool head off. 

Now, every night I get a fright ; 

There comes a-floating in — 
Oh, horrid sight ! — a crown of white, 

With upper teeth a-grin ! 

But worst is, oh, the sea of woe 

That floweth out of me ; 
Full well I know that you will go 

And weep in sympathy. 



THE DANCE 

Me fate are like flthers that float on the wind ; 
Oi 'm hopin' and prayin' this niver will ind. 
Me limbs are that light that Oi lift thim unknown ; 
Me ha-art is a bubble that music has blown. 

Jf it was a bubble, he 'd busht it to-night, 
For Moike is the bye that 's fer holdin' ye tight. 
Oi 'm notin' no harrum ; he 's manin' of none ; 
'T iz jist that we ^re floatin' togither as one. 

Me fate are like fithers that float on the wind ; 
Oi 'm hopin' and prayin' this niver will ind. 
Me limbs are that light that Oi lift thim unknown ; 
Me ha-art is a bubble that music has blown. 

118 



The Old Skating Pond 

His eye is that roguish, his face is that tan, 
Oi alwiz think freckles look good on a man, 
He 's stheppin' that aisy an shwings wid a vim, 
An' Norah is crazy Oi 'm dancin' wid him. 

Me fate are like fithers that float on the wind ; 
Oi 'm hopin' and prayin' this niver will ind. 
Me limbs are that light that Oi lift thim unknown ; 
Me ha-art is a bubble that music has blown. 

Och ! Norah 's a ninny. She 's best kape an eye 
A-watchin' that ginny, he 's silky an' sly. 
Or soon she '11 be takin' some dope in her suds 
An' thin she '11 be waking widout iny duds. 

Me fate are like fithers that float on the wind ; 
Oi 'm hopin' and prayin' this niver will ind. 
Me limbs are that light that Oi lift thim unknown ; 
Me ha-art is a bubble that music has blown. 

There 's Willie O'Reilly that 's handsome an' dhark ; 
He brought me home Sunday frum out at the park ; 
He 's dancin' wid Katie an' her a disgrace, 
Wid pads fer a forrum an' wid paint fer a face. 

Me fate are like fithers that float on the wind ; 
Oi 'm hopin' and prayin' this niver will ind. 
Me limbs are that light that Oi lift thim unknown ; 
Me ha-art is a bubble that music has blown. 

119 



The Mad River Country 

The dance, it is over, an', faith ! Oi dislike 
My bein' a door-mat fer bowwul-legged Mike; 
He stands there a-grinnin' wid taath out in front; 
Oi '11 niver go home wid that rid-hidded runt. 

Rid-hidded, bow-legged, an' frickled to boot ! 
A nose that thurns up till he looks in his shnoot ! 
While Willie has fachures that blin loike a rhoime! 
O '11 show me shmart Katie who 's bhatin' me toime. 



DER VATCH VER MEIN 

A roar like d-u-n-der sthrike mein ear. 
Like g-r-a-s-h ob a-h-r-m-s or preakers near. 
Vot p-r-e-a-k-s upon mein treams tervine? 
Vot vakes und shakes me indu line? 
Olt Vater Dime I needt not fear, 
Mein vatch, Pig Pen, vas sthanding here. 
Let utter Chermans vatch der Rhine, 
Der vatch. Pig Pen, 's der vatch ver mein ! 
Dey roar like dunder, put I sthand 
Mit mein du f eets on Yankee-land. 
Let utter Chermans charge und run, 
I 've found dot blase dot's in der sun. 
Vot hif dey ghills der Kaiser's kid, 
Und schmack his face und sthomp his lid? 
Vhen I 've got many kids dot 's klein, 
Per vatch. Pig Pen, 's der watch ver mein ! 

120 



The Old Skating Pond 

He vakes me vor mein morning chobs, 
Und out I gets to feed der gobs ; 
Put hif mein ghost should vatch der Ehine, 
Oh, who vill vatch dese kids so klein? 



WE ARE SEVEN 

I have a little Jewish boy, 

(He is eight years old, he said) ; 

His hair is thick with many a curl 
That clusters 'round his head. 

If, when I have arithmetic. 

This quiz to him is given : 
^^How many boys?" says Isaac, quick, 

"Oh, deacher, ve vas zefen." 

"Beside the fence, you find two cents, 

And five to you are given?'' 
With sparkling eye, he makes reply, 

"Oh, deacher, I haf zefen !" 

"In father's store you earn some more, 

Enough to make eleven ; 
But losing two and spending two?" 

— He did not answer, "Seven." 

He stands so long! Now, what is wrong? 

Why is the child so dense? 
His smile has fled, he hangs his head, 

Put finally does commence 

121 



The Mad River Country 

To answer slow, reproachful, low, 
With plaintive innocence. 

With tearful eye : ^'Oh, deacher, vy 
Should Iky lose du cents?'' 

I did explain, and then again 

I added evidence; 
But Iky still kept saying, ^^Vill 

I haf du lose du cents?" 

He is not rough, he is not tough. 
And he is never vicious ; 

But 't is a fact, when we subtract, 
That Iky is suspicious ! 



WHAT 'S IN A NAME? 

A hundred miles of pathless wood 
Were 'round a little clearing. 

And up to where the cabin stood 
The shade of night was nearing. 

Above the wood, the lack of smoke 

From other habitation 
Would seem to leave these simple folk 

Alone in God's creation. 

A skin the mother bended o'er. 

Into a garment fitting. 
And at her feet, within the door. 

Two little girls were sitting. 

122 



The Old Skating Pond 

^^Oh, mother, sister wants to sleep ; 

Her head jist keeps a-bumpin ; 
Oh, sister, watch the shadders creep 

Like cats a-ketchin sumfin. 

^^Oh, sister, try an' keep awake, 

Fer pappy 's gone to borrow 
Some meal, an' mother 's goin' to make 

Some Johnny-cake to-morrow.'' 

They looked and looked, till through the gloom 

Their glance in darkness losing ; 
One to her mother in the room 

Spoke out her childish musing : 

"The woods are full of owls to-night; 
Jist hear 'em hootin', mother ! 
Thar 's one a-hootin' to the right, 
An' to the left, anuther. 



^? 



"A while ago I kinder thought 

I heard a sound of shootin'. 
It sounded like pap's gun that shot. 

An' all the owls quit hootin'. 

"Mother, what makes pap stay so late?" 
"He '11 soon be comin', Mary. 
You know, we allwiz have to wait 
If there 's a deer to carry." 

123 



The Mad River Country 

Across her face the mother light 
Has made the lines to soften ; 

But as she peers into the night, 
The owl hoots once too often ! 



The mother shrinks, and shivering stands, 

Up to her bosom clutching! 
The children nod, their little hands 

And heads together touching I 

A rush of forms, a childish scream, 

A woman's foot that races, 
A gun that pours a fiery stream 

Into the painted faces ; 

A fleeing form, a slamming door. 

Without, a savage yelling, 
Within, upon the cabin floor. 

Two crimson streams are welling; 

Without, in search of brush and leaves, 
The dusky forms are creeping; 

Within, from out her bosom heaves 
A woman's broken weeping. 

A horrid yell, a tongue of flame 
That brighter, brighter flashes ; 

And — when the hours of morning came. 
Some charred bones and ashes. 

124 



The Old Skating Pond 

And months could pass ere hunters found 

The little home unlucky. 
Their hopeful hearts had built on ground 

The Indian called ^^Kain Tuckee." 



SOME LINES ON THE MAD RIVER COUNTRY 

I, musing on thy shrunken flood 

Confined, defiled, would drop a tear 
And mourn for ye that other blood 

Which let ye wander wild and clear. 

Save that I mark some bloody stains 

Upon the froth the current brings, 
Which speak of captive blood and brains 

Mixed with the water of thy springs. 

The roar of iron, the screech of steam, 

The trolley's grate along thy shore, 
Are sweeter than the panther's scream 

Or the warwhoop of the days of yore. 

Oh, those who live by ye, and pine 
For lands of song and fields of fame. 

The isles of Greece, the castled Rhine, 
Ignore, despise thy equal claim. 

Will parrots, pedants understand 

That heroes live in every age, 
And once, at least, in every land 

So learn to prize their heritage? 

125 



The Mad River Country 

'T is not for heroes that ye want, 

Or beauty for poetic themes ; 
Ye lack the Homer fit to vaunt 

Thy worth above thy sister streams. 

Oh, ye had lovers long ago 

When streams, like maids, were won by force ; 
Their watch-towers gird thy water's flow 

And jealous guard thy winding course. 

Then twice this sparkling beauty brought 

Earth's greatest, grimest tragedy. 
The generations' pain for naught. 

The death of nationality. 

No spell can linger in the place 

Where runs the river, from whose bank 

Ancestors of the Aztec race 
Or fathers of the Incas drank ! 

The fiercest of the forest clan, 

Miami bold or brave Shawnee, 
By right of might could choose their land, 

So came and built their camp by thee. 

Sardonic smiles the European, 

The while we blush for fools who rave 

And, raving, rush from scene to scene 
Nor walk a mile to Kenton's grave. 

126 



The Old Skating Pond 

That clean, bold, daring heart will blaze, 
Will from the dark wood fastness shine, 

A camp-fire where a shadow plays 
O'er each uncouth and ruder line. 



We often read in prose or rhyme 
Accounts of some rude, wild career. 

But told as though in foreign clime 
Befell the deeds that happened here. 

Go, read of how Mazzeppa rode 
The gauntlet race that Uncas ran ; 

A wilder steed was here bestrode 
By braver, more Homeric man. 

But let us glory heaven sent 
To thee, inspired, a later son 

To carve a worthy monument 
To mark thy most romantic one. 

Here let him slumber till the haze 

That time does spread around the past 

Like spell of Indian-summer days. 
Will drift and dwell o'er him at last. 



And here the start of Stover's race ; 

The stake wasi set, the drums were beat, 
The black paint put upon his face. 

And death and he about to meet. 

127 



The Mad River Country 

But mother-love may live in squaws. 

The watch was nodding in the dawn ; 
She broke his bonds, her tribal laws, 

And brought a colt to leap upon. 

Down wooded aisles for fifty miles, 
Their horrid whoops upon his heels, 

No time for trial of trick or wile. 
He rides the colt until it reels. 

He ran the legs from under him. 

As retching, writhing, he reclined 
With bursting ears and vision dim. 

The warwhoops fill the hills behind ! 

John Stover did not change his mind 
At river, hill, or lashing limb ; 

With home ahead and hell behind. 
These were but paltry odds to him. 

A miracle, this Marathon, 

Through thorny, snake-infested fen 
With brambles Mercury would shun. 

That mocks the might of Attic men. 

He burnt his blood, he cracked his heart. 
He paid a most appalling sum ; 

'T was here at dawn he made his start. 
He slept beyond the Muskingum. 

128 



The Old Skating Pond 

And though he reached his fellow men 
And seemed as strong as e'er before, 

John Stover never ran again, 
His running was forever o'er. 

Go, search the roll of glory's sons 

Who bled to keep their people free, 
And ye will find far fewer ones 

Above than 'neath the great Shawnee. 

Here at thy bosom he had nursed 

A manhood, heathen, huge and high, 

His lot considered, at the worst 
Could greatly live and greatly die. 

Wistful to tread the warpath soon. 

Lurking along the moonlit shore. 
Mocking the cry of owl and loon. 

Learning his lessons in Indian lore ; 

Flies over thy bosom in birch canoe 

So swift, the shaggy buffaloes 
And startled wild deer gallop through 

Wide meadows where the blue grass grows ; 

Then, deftly dipping, he softly glides 

Around the bend to a hollow tree 
Where, shielded by branches that shade thy sides. 

He smiles at the bear and the honey-bee ; 

129 



The Mad River Country 

Then riding thy riffles away, away, 
Light as a feather upon the breeze. 

By swampy stretches where muskrats play, 
Where pigeons have broken the forest trees ; 

One sweep of the paddle and swift he turns, 
The birch boat bounds to his stroke again. 

By springy fields and cliffs of fern. 
And last by Aberfelda's glen ; 

Racing around the sycamore 

That tries his tireless stroke to stay 

By thrusting out its arms from shore, 
He reaches his home at Pickaway. 

These trees have heard more hideous screams 
Ring high above the gloating yells. 

Than ever rang in Dante's dreams 
Among the lost of seven hells. 

They never piled such funeral pyres 

As here, to feed the Indian hate, 
Nor lit as many council fires 

Where Indian warriors would debate. 

Here Logan's sonorous tones have rolled 
By fiick'ring flames that fitful played. 

As the tale of Indian wrongs was told 
To painted brave and renegade. 



130 



The Old Skatifig Pond 

They here have carved another name, 
Small monument, a humble mark 

They wrenched away from niggard fame 
To place above the head of Clark. 

This man we made to miss his hour 
By base ingratitude, is clear; 

His deeds gave prophecy of power 
To win for us a hemisphere. 

Our legions led by lesser men 

Have lost the Lady of the Snows ; 

But what had been her chances when 
Our Hannibal had dealt her blows? 

A nature fashioned for command, 
A frame of steel, a lion heart. 

That conquered armies with a band, 
A marshal fit for Bonaparte. 

No campaign of the Oorsican 
In Alpine snow or Egypt's sand 

So shaped the future lot of man, 
Firm fixed the boundaries of a land. 

We need not seek through former ages, 
To fill for ye a hall of fame, 

For names to live in history's pages ; 
Thy living sons could fill the same. 

131 



The Mad River Country 

That wonderland, Arabian Nights, 
With princes riding through the air, 

Is matched by this where rode the Wrights 
To realms its fancy did not dare. 

Ye have as much of bone and brawn 
And wealth of grain, as rival yields. 

Besides the brain she calls upon 
To help her reap her harvest fields. 

A son who stands, ignored, alone, 

'Mid smiling crowd where no one sees 

But monstrous feet, or mocks the bone 
That matched some deeds of Hercules. 

Such are the ways of Avomen's world. 
Despising what is plain and crude. 

That many a powdered nose was curled 
Which owed his brains for baby food. 

The acorns from a giant oak 

Will fall around the stump and rise 

To noble groves. So chimney smoke 
Of men he made has filled our eves. 



Eight well were named thy waters Mad, 
Where once the raging torrent hurled 

Its crest so high its violence had 

Then washed the tale around the Avorld. 

132 



The Old Skating Pond 

THE OOUNTRY-BOEN 

Who, country-born, is nnacquainted 
With the little stores that stand unpainted 
Where the highAvays cross? And all in keeping, 
The mud-bespattered rigs with sleeping 
Horses, so recent from the plow. 
Their wide-eyed little drivers, how 
Their coming in from farms remote 
Did seem to them a thing of note ! 
The smithy's shop across the way. 
Wide open to the eye, where lay 
Old horse-shoes, heaping high ; whence came 
The smell of burning hoofs ; where flame 
Roared up and died away. 
And saving these, no stir of life 
Except a slattern village wife. 
Or dozing dog with half-closed eyes 
Rousing to snap at the buzzing flies. 
A shop, a store, and, as a rule, 
A little church, a little school, 
Some dozen houses scattered 'round. 
Each with its little plot of ground 
Half tilled yet giving the scanty bite 
That must suffice the appetite 
Of haggard women and careless men. 
Their hungry broods of children, when 
The farmer's work grows slack. 

What though the years in flocks have flown? 
Some things the country-born has known 

133 



The Mud River Country 

Will still remain unchanged ; the land, 
The hills, th' eternal streamlets, and 
The roads where wild canaries flit. 
Deep in the dark of evening, sit 
And, while memory's films are flashing, see : 
Crossing the curtain of reverie. 
The hamlet's browsing cattle stray 
Along the roads that wind away 
Among the rag-weeds brown ; by wall 
Of horse- and iron-weed, thick and tall. 
By where the thistle, finding room. 
Is thrusting up its purple bloom. 
By ditches where each summer rain 
Starts up again the frogs' refrain ; 
See how the little herder goes. 
With thorn-filled feet and stubbed toes. 
Through burning dust that 's ankle deep. 
Along the roads which drag themselves and creep 
Wearily on to nowhere. 

In loneliness that scalds the heart, 
Squat little houses far apart. 
With half their fences tumbling down. 
With door-yards parching bare and brown, 
And, scattered 'round, the wrecks of trees 
Unpruned and blighted by disease ; 
With weeds at home around the door. 
With ever-present chickens, or. 
Paddling 'round the waste of the well 
Or where the kitchen waters fell, 

134 



The Old Skating Pond 

Under that seemingly friendly eye, 
Guardedly making his slow reply, 
Beading his standing in their eyes. 
Bitter experience has made him wise. 

A nudging elbow and quiet grin ! 

Some subject of gossip is coming in, 

Some harmless, inoffensive one. 

With beau-less daughter or simple son. 

God pity the people who must reside 

As joy and jest of a country-side 

Where petty faults are magnified. 

Sensations manufactured ! 

Papers and books they rarely own ; 

Travel and plays are alike unknown ; 

Such people, feeling their spirits smother. 

Will find their sport in one another. 

In slaking this vicious, wolfish thirst. 

The simplest-hearted fare the worst ! 

— Guileless and guileful, they here reside. 

The critics and helpers of country-side. 



THE SYLVIAN WAY 

(An Extract from The Birth of Poetry) 
Secluded stretched the sylvan path, 
So rarely trod that nature hath 
Bepaired the ravages and, mute, 
Bewove her carpet to refute 
The common claim to right of way. 
Yet bade the beauty-lover stay. 

139 



The Mad River Country 

It wandered under willow row 

That overhung the water's flow ; 

You moved along the pebbled shore 

In rhythm with the water's roar. 

It loitered under locust bloom, 

The wanting, haunting, sweet perfume, 

The onlj^, lonely sense that you, 

The sylvan wanderer, ever knew. 

It wound along the crest of hills 

Whose view-point brought no smoke of mills. 

Unbarred by shrub or bush or trees. 

Untainted blew the summer breeze. 

Spread at your feet, from where you stand 

See corn and wheat and pasture land, 

The blue of rye, the green of oats. 

The valleys wore their Joseph-coats ! 

It hastened down in eager way 

To where the water-babies play 

Their game of leapfrog with the stones 

And sing their glee in treble tones. 

You drank, and carried through the wild 

The spirit of a little child. 

The cattle's feet have trod a maze 

Of paths and roads and trails and ways, 

And each one leads to wonderland. 

But only children understand 

That in this bit of greenery 

Is half the stage's scenery. 

But, tired of fancy's lonely plays. 

Of tame, familiar, trodden ways, 

140 



The Old Skating Fond 

Putting the branch and briar aside, 

And hopeful-hearted, eager-eyed, 

Scorning the branches' stinging censure, 

Press on to seek a new adventure. 

Kifle and snare had long bereft 

Our woods of dangerous charms and left 

Only the startled owl that flew, 

Muttering his fierce and fretful ^^Who !" 

Yet, to the youthful heart, would he 

Seem warder to some mystery; 

Fit guardian for the gates of ill, 

His sudden challenge sent a chill. 

Oh, there be spots in the darkest wood 

That bring a chill to the bounding blood ! 

l^ou need no lore or legend eld 

To know each tree a Merlin held. 

So dark the shadow, deep the shade, 

No innocence has ever played 

In guileless games or sported here; 

The very silence whispers fear. 

A haunt of death, no home of life, 

Where something seems to hint of strife, 

That you are watched by eyes unseen ; 

The very soil does seem unclean 

And has a musty, fetid smell 

Like dust of victims who had fell 

Within a temple of the Druids. 

The king snake here might fight his feuds, 

Go hunting where the rattlers creep, 

The gorged panther lie and sleep, 

141 



The Mud River Country 

For once unmindful of his prey, 

Dozing his heavy meal away. 

No solace here for weary men ; 

The place is fit for a weir-wolf's den. 

Some subtle sense within you tells 

That evil, cold, uncanny, dwells 

Within the place, and now does lie 

A- watching you with baleful eye. 

You shudder, shiver, hurry back. 

The weir-wolf stealing on your track. 

While icy hands have clutched your hair 

As though they seek to hold you there. 

While pride will not consent to dash 

Toward the path, you often flash 

A backward, quick, and furtive glance. 

Half hope, half fear that you may chance 

To catch the horror unaware, 

The nameless horror stalking there. 

A little sunbeam, struggling through 

Where lightnings rove a rift or two. 

Serenely through the shadow floats 

Beholds your fearing face, then notes 

Its change to calm security 

And backward glances, quizzically. 

While with a little, foolish smile 

You saunter down a sylvan aisle. 

Oh, wanderers here will find the foods 

That serve to nourish many moods ! 

Look up, faint heart, behold the oaks ! 

Though riven by the lightning strokes 

142 



The Old Skating Pond 

They stand with outstretched arms defying 

Time or tempest, or replying 

To the wind's wild harping with a whispered 

Benediction. You have heard 

The mad complaints of common trees 

Against the storm-king's liberties, 

Which bend at every idle puff, 

Flatten when the winds are rough ; 

But such to these were the underbrush ; 

These rise above the common crush 

Immutable, to tower alone, 

Slow move to music of their own. 

With trunks that cast a spell as solemn 

As ever- wrapped cathedral column. 

Disdaining age and element. 

They stand so calm and confident, 

A silence and a peace imbued 

This summer home of solitude. 

Well may the sylvan wanderer lay 

Himself on last year's leaves and say, 

"I need but innocence and Eve 

To have an Eden." Nay, I grieve 

To have to think of women, when 

I know their presence means that men 

May never hope to muse or hear 

The other voices that are near. 

That woman, God did make most good, 

Would be unwelcome in this wood. 

There is no silence when you know 

The universal language. Slow 

143 



The Mad River Country 

The progress through the primer ; hush 

Thy voice, nor be in haste to rush 

To recitation. Teachers love 

The one that listens well. Above 

Thy head for centuries have stood 

The oaks, as watch-towers of the wood 

And pleasant country-side. Have they 

No tale to tell to thee to-day? 

Be mute and let your fancy tire. 

Be meek and let your heart admire, 

Till, suddenly perceiving whence 

The Indian drew his eloquence. 

His stately dignity, ye hear 

Their words address the inner ear : 

^^Lo, we have held communion with 

The wise of many peoples. Myth 

Is all that now remains to mark 

Their being. Is your feeble spark 

Man's limitation? Who are ye? 

The future aborigine ! 

Out of the dark into the dark 

We hear them coming, going ; hark ! 

Why is the Toltec's cry of woe? 

The Axtec's war-drum thundering so! 

The cotton-armored Aztec reels 

Before the Spanish sharpened steels. 

And the Saxon walks as lord of all ; 

The Saxon is no dog to crawl 

For the crumbs that drop from the rich man's table; 

He lives and dies indomitable. 

144 



The Old Skating Pond 

We 've not a knot or gnarled limb 

But feels itself as kin to him. 

The Saxon fights but cannot fast ; 

The Saxon walks into the past, 

Leaving the peoples that live so cheap, 

Leaving the peoples that cringe and creep." 

The trees have ceased, and, swaying, sigh. 

Old splendid pagans, I deny 

Your dark philosophy. I climb 

With the tree-top dweller ; dropping down, 

To-day I walk the solid ground 

And read th' epitome of time ; 

To-night I trust to see the faces 

That dwell among the stellar spaces. 

And thus I know, old friends of mine. 

My roots run farther down than thine. 

If ye have power to grow so big 

Seeking the light, my topmost twig 

Can reach the air celestial. Let 

Our passing cause ye no regret. 

What if our Saxon bones are hid 

In the middle stone of the pyramid? 

With every bone we leave a prayer 

Our mingled bones may build a stair 

Which after-men will use to climb 

To live on levels more sublime. 

And all serene and all content 

Ye feel your soul's great Complement 

Has come a-walking through the wood, 

Has paused, is saying, ^^It is good ; 

145 



The Mad River Country 

But every age must have an end, 
And mightier cycles now impend; 
Lo, come with Me ; this world be done — 
I lead ye to a fairer one.'^ 



BIRTH OF POETRY 

{An Extract) 

Rather the parrot's name be mine, 

Than toad a-hopping through my line ; 

I, subtle beast of field to be, 

To mouth the devil's sophistry ; 

The future see each word I spoke 

Was but a whiflp of sulphur smoke 

To vanish in eternity. 

The devil writes no poetry. 

For poetry is sweet and pure 

As God's own wind upon the moor 

A-blowing over open places 

And kissing little children's faces, 

Till all that 's wild and rare and sweet 

Is wafted down at mortal feet; 

A rushing wind that takes a toll 

From the secret garden of some soul 

Which leaves the world to take its rest 

Where thrushes sing and robins nest. 

And the rose runs wild as the windblown hair 

Of the little child that 's playing there ; 

That soul's true self which sings and runs. 

For once, like heaven's little ones 

146 



^: 






nm. 



^y^ *) 



UNLOCKING EDEN S GATES WITH SONG 



The Old ^hating Pond 

Till echoes of its joy divine 
Come floating over into mine. 
What house can hold, what garden walls 
Deny me when such playmate calls? 
Another age? Another land? 
Nay, we are running hand in hand, 
And for an hour foretaste our fate, 
Have found the key to Eden's gate, 
Forsake at will the world of wrong. 
Unlocking Eden's gates with song. 
* * * 

Her bugle blast time cannot deaden ; 

'T will sound the charge at Armageddon ! 

Where battle-songs go rolling so. 

They raze the last vile Jericho, 

And Satan's host does melt in fire 

Of rapture, flaming from a choir 

Of men the muses' master leads 

In singing great Jehovah's deeds 

Till heaven's harmony shall stream 

As high as heaven's holy theme^ — 

The wonders of the law of love 

Outpoured in poetry above ! 

And where we looked, at last, to see 

The myst'ry of eternity. 

That raised us from a worm a-crawl 

To share with Him, the Lord of all ! 

Somewhere, somehow, this has been told. 

And like our Father's love is old ; 

Someway, somehow, it, being sung. 

Then like our Father's love is young. 

147 



The Mad River Country 

MY MOTHER 

I saw her live;I saw her die; 
And it has been my last reply 
To arguments advanced by doubt. 
I saw her ship go sailing out 
Serene to seek eternity ; 
She knew she sailed a charted sea. 
Such peaceful hearts can they afford 
Who know their Pilot is aboard. 
Secure themselves, their stress of mind 
Is all for those they leave behind. 
In every mother's son, there needs 
Must flow the blood of many breeds. 
I was a stubborn, stiff-haired child, 
Whose temper had its trigger filed 
Responsive to a touch and shot 
Out angry words before it thought. 
Would fire its force in one hot blast. 
Be penitent before there past 
A second, had momentary hate 
That many loved to cultivate. 
If wild I raged, or did address 
Harsh words to her in selfishness, 
I saw her hurt, reproachful eyes ; 
Then calm she spoke, she did despise 
The vulgar tongue, the rude, the violent. 
No worthy theme would find her silent. 
Needing her speech, but otherwise 
Was fond of speaking through her eyes. 
God's beauties seldom went to waste. 
She had a good instinctive taste. 

148 



The Old Skating Pond 

She did not live for us alone, 

Could mother other than her own ; 

She had her faults; she was more proud 

Of those she loved than was allowed 

By reason. 

She would not please some stranger eyes ; 

And yet, the light that underlies 

The faces of the truly good, 

And proves they feed on other food 

Than merely bread alone, she had. 

With countenance grave but seldom sad. 

She would not cringe or condescend. 

Be over, under, but a friend 

Where worthy friends were wanted. 

She would extend a hand undaunted 

To help the under dog; but when 

Her path would cross the way of men 

Who sought to hide their true dimensions 

By using stilts of false pretensions. 

She felt she could afford to smile 

With quiet humor for a while. 

She seldom sought man's meeting-place ; 

If so, composed she kept her face ; 

She could not be at ease among 

The rough and ready, ever hung 

Aloof from those whose natures frisk. 

Like meeting dogs, a- jumping brisk 

To jovial mouthing. 

She could forgive, but never quite 

Could understand the petty spite 

149 



The Mad River Countf^y 

That gnaws at everything, delights 
In breeding feuds, fomenting fights; 
Perverted wit that sits and rocks 
With laughter while, like fighting cocks, 
It pits good friends against each other, 
Or with the children bait a mother ; 
Such ones would love to give applause 
In case the lion closed his jaws 
Upon the keeper's head; they search 
The yellow sheets that most besmirch 
Mankind, with eager, avid eyes 
That crawl across the page like flies 
In quest of filth. 
She could pursue her enemies 
With kindness through adversities; 
In prosperous times leave them alone. 
She seldom cast a verbal stone 
In self-defense. More apt to grieve, 
I fear her tenderness did leave 
Another's teeth bite in more deep 
Than they intended; yet could keep 
The hand and heart to bear them flowers 
Instead of thorns in stricken hours. 
The more of women that I see, 
The greener grows her memory ; 
And fate at times my lot has thrown 
With worthy women. I have known 
As good, more wise, but she is yet 
The most womanly woman I have met. 
Yet such is man, sometimes I rage 
Because I lack a heritage ; 

150 



The Old Shatifig Pond 

At times I hardly can endure 

That empty minds should call me poor, 

Till, thinking of my mother^s worth, 

I envy not the heirs of earth ; 

But grieving that I manifest 

So little of her nature's best, 

I drop their weapons, cease to battle 

With those who strive like swdne and cattle. 

And seek the path her faith-shod feet 

Have trampled through the briars to meet 

Her Savior and her God. 



THE BIRTH OF POETRY 

(An Extract) 

In the heart of each musician, 

you will find at note or two 
Of the mighty flood of music 

that the world is moving through. 
For the Master of musicians 

has arranged us in a scale ; 
He has made a full provision 

for unworthy ones that fail. 
As He knows the fears and failings 

of our fickle, human hearts, 
He has sealed our ears from hearing 

(all except appointed parts. 
So ye hear no note of music 

that is fiooding all the blue, 
Save the soft, insistent singing 

of the thing that ye should do ; 

151 



The Mad River Country 

And the stars upon their courses 

all are guided on their way, 
All go marching to the music 

of the great, eternal lay. 
When the Peaceful One is weary 

with our wickedness and war, 
When our cup befouls the heavens 

with the filth that's running o'er, 
Then the world that this One uses 

for a sweet string of his lyre, 
When his ear detects the discord, 

will be cast into the fire. 
But the pupils who have practiced 

on the themes the Master wrote. 
Will not perish in the burning 

but be wafted high to float 
To a land where now the Master 

will arrange their hearts to play. 
Play a psean of rejoicing 

that will banish night away ; 
And the wounded hands a-wand'ring 

gently o'er the spotless keys, 
Make the gates of heaven vibrate 

with the mighty melodies. 
Sweeter than the cherub's song or 

chant of shining seraphim, 
Music from this instrument is 

mounting, mounting, up to Him. 

152 



The Old ^hating Pond 

Will ye cherish, then, thy portion 

of this perfect harmony, 

Till you 're worthy of his hand-touch, 

and your heart 's an organ-key? 



LIFE'S NOVEMBER 

Our boyhood dreams. 

Let manhood work. 
Our mellow age remember : 

Oh, have some beams 

Of summer lurk 
Mid shadows of November. 

Our boyhood's hopes. 

Our manhood's sighs. 
Such age will reconcile ; 

From darkness gropes 

To light and tries 
To meet Death with a smile. 



153 



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